


Like a Feather on the Ice

by starlitdreamscapes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Character Study, Depression, Falling In Love, Fluff, Growing Up, In a way, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Retelling, Slow Build, a bit of a, this kind of goes through everything that happens in viktor's point of view, with added scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8820715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlitdreamscapes/pseuds/starlitdreamscapes
Summary: "Zvezda moya,” she sang, leaning on the railing to look at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to try? Your father and I could help you learn.”	Viktor looked at the glimmery, glassy surface, nearly blinding him in the sunlight, and shook his head. “I’ll stay here,” he said quietly.	“All right,” his mother relented, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Perhaps another time, then.”	Viktor nodded this time and watched his mother skate away to his father, graceful and gorgeous, and thought that if he ever set foot on ice, it’d be in a dream.—Aka Viktor's backstory and a retelling of the series through his eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

The ice rink, to Viktor, had seemed like a place of magic, where people were transformed into beautiful creatures that moved like water across the surface. It seemed unreal, Viktor thought, that a person could stand on a blade and _move_.

He was six at the time, watching as his parents skated together, laughing and talking with the other skaters, feeling completely at home on the ice. A feeling that Viktor didn’t--couldn’t--share. Catching his eye, his mother skated over to him, smile warm despite the chill in the air. “ _Zvezda moya_ ,” she sang, leaning on the railing to look at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to try? Your father and I could help you learn.”

Viktor looked at the glimmery, glassy surface, nearly blinding him in the sunlight, and shook his head. “I’ll stay here,” he said quietly.

“ _Solnyshko_ ,” his mother tried. “It’s not scary. You’ll be safe, I promise.”

Viktor bit his lip, shaking his head again. His eyes caught sight of a girl falling on the ice and he thought, _no way am I going out there._

“All right,” his mother relented, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Perhaps another time, then.”

Viktor nodded this time and watched his mother skate away to his father, graceful and gorgeous, and thought that if he ever set foot on ice, it’d be in a dream.

* * *

“I’m just saying, Vitya,” his father said over a breakfast of pancakes. “I think you’d really like it.”

Viktor sighed, taking a bite of his food. It was fluffy and soft and sweet and would have been a lot more delicious if his father hadn’t decided to bring up figure skating again. “I don’t want to,” he complained.

“We’re not going to force you,” his mother said. “I just think it would be good for you. Figure skating is something both of us value. We’d love it if you would try. For us.”

“It’s too cold,” Viktor said. “And too slippery. I’d fall.” He was terrified, to be completely honest, of setting foot in the rink. 

“Everyone falls, _zvezda moya_ ,” his mother countered. “It’s part of life. That’s why we’re here.” She gave him another pancake, smiling at him fondly as she did so. “And you know we’d never let you get hurt, right?”

“So what do you say? Just try it once?” his father suggested.

“Maybe sometime,” Viktor replied. _Maybe never?_ “But not now.”

His parents exchanged a look, before his mother nodded. “All right,” she relented. “Another time, perhaps.” She had said that over and over again, and every time Viktor would agree, _yes, another time_ , but never fall through with his promise. He was always forgetful like that. “Now, how are you doing in class? Everything coming out all right?”

Viktor nodded, excitedly beginning to talk about a new book they were reading that he absolutely _loved_ , and his parents smiled and praised him, but he knew that they were disappointed. The pancakes tasted like cardboard in his mouth.

Well, he wasn’t figure skating.

* * *

He was seven when he watched his first figure skating competition. 

“The Grand Prix Final is playing in a few minutes!” his father said excitedly, picking up Viktor and easily swinging him onto his shoulders. “How about we watch together, _solnyshko_?”

“What’s the Grand Prix Final?” Viktor asked instead. It sounded weird and he hadn’t heard any of his classmates mention it before.

“It’s a figure skating competition,” his father replied. “And a big one at that.”

Viktor made a face. “It sounds boring,” he complained. “Just a bunch of people skating.”

His father laughed. “It’s nothing like that,” he said. “Come on. I’ll show you.” He carried him to the couch, nestling Viktor between his two parents. His mother was tapping her feet in anticipation and Viktor watched as the first skater slid onto the ice.

Music picked up and the skater began to skate, no, _dance_.

It was beautiful, full of twirls and jumps and spins, the skater mapping out a story on the ice. It was nothing like Viktor had thought it’d be. If he had thought the _skating rink_ was magical, this performance was _unimaginable_. He felt his mouth slowly drop open. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only watch as the skater finished their skate, coming to rest in a graceful end position.

“That was pretty good,” his mother said to his father, who nodded in agreement, and Viktor couldn’t help but think, _How can you not be amazed? That was incredible!_ “Vitya?” she asked. “What’d you think of that?”

Viktor couldn’t help but keep his eyes glued to the screen, the only thought on his mind to see that happen again.

“Viktor?” his mother prompted him.

“That’s me,” he breathed. His mother opened his mouth, clearly confused, until he looked at her and spoke again. “I’m going to do that someday.”

* * *

It was a week later when they brought him out onto the skating rink. The blades were hard to walk on, and he wobbled as he headed towards the rink. 

“Why can’t I just wear shoes?” he asked.

“It’s too dangerous,” his father asked. He seemed completely at ease walking in his skates. “Your shoes can’t grip the ice.”

“Okay,” Viktor said, still a bit confused. “But these are so hard to walk on!”

“You’ll get used to them, _zvezda moya_ ,” his mother replied. As they neared the rink, his stomach started to churn because _he was going to fall and break all his bones and then die._

Viktor’s mother took his hand, his father the other, warm, firm, supportive, and he felt that he might not die. Maybe.

His parents let go of his hands, stepping easily onto the ice. His mother held out her hands. “I won’t let you fall,” she promised. “Just hold on.” She slowly, carefully led him 

Viktor grasped his mother’s arms immediately, clinging onto them, but didn’t yet step onto the ice. It could still kill him, after all. 

“When you’re ready,” his father said patiently. “We’ll be here.”

Viktor nodded. Still gripping onto his mother’s hands, he took a step. 

“Very good!” his mother praised him. They slowly moved together until he was at the railing, now holding that tight.

“Try taking a few steps,” his mother said, slowly letting go of him. 

Viktor made a little squeak at the prospect of him moving on the ice _alone_.

“We’re right here, Vitya,” his father said reassuringly. 

Viktor took a breath. Slowly, he began to move, clutching to the railing for support, when step after another. When he started to slip, his mother would catch him. 

“Try letting go,” his mother said gently when he was beginning to get used to the ice. 

Viktor slowly let go. He skated, actually _skated_ , for a few feet until he fell.

It was harsh, unexpected, and he couldn’t help but think, _how can I be a figure skater now if I can’t even skate?_ He felt tears bubble up, before his father’s hand was on his shoulder.

“I fell,” he whispered and his father shrugged.

“Of course you did,” he said. “And you’ll fall many more times before you get the hang of skating. But we’ll teach you how to get up again.”

They spent an hour at the ice rink, teaching Viktor how to skate. “A natural,” his mother had proclaimed. “I’m so glad you decided to try this.”

Viktor beamed, holding onto his mother’s hand, wobbling a little on the ice, but not completely falling, and grinned.

“Me too,” he said. And he actually believed it.

* * *

He was ten now, grabbing at his father's hand as he tried to get them to hurry to the rink. "Come on!" he said excitedly.

"Slow down, Vitya," his father said with a laugh. "The ice rink isn't going to disappear."

Viktor conceded, but grudgingly so, matching his parents painfully slow pace. The moment he laced on his skates, he was, off, gliding onto the ice. He spun a little, smiling at the grace that came with the ice. He let out a breath, turning to see his parents slip onto the ice as well, skating just as easily.

"The ice gives a certain beauty, a certain grace that comes to the people on it," his mother had once told him, after a few figure skating lessons. "It transforms us, turning us into something so much greater than we are." She had smiled at him gently, ruffling his hair, nearly making him topple over in surprise. "Sometimes I think this is where we should be. Where we truly belong." She had shrugged, shaking her head. "But perhaps that's just me. Now, come on, let me see you try and skate alone this time."

Viktor closed his eyes, letting muscle memory take over as he skated. 

Yeah.

This was where he belonged.


	2. Chapter 2

“Want to hang out after school?” one of Viktor’s classmates offered. Viktor had forgotten his name. He wasn’t going to tell him though. He was twelve, and the last thing he wanted was to get someone’s bad side. “It’s a pretty big party we’re having. You can come if you like.”

Viktor shook his head. “Can’t,” he replied. “Figure skating.”

“You’re always skating,” Artem noted. He was one of Viktor’s early friends, and they had been hanging out less and less ever since Viktor had decided to put figure skating in front of school and friends. “Can’t you take a break?”

“Nope,” Viktor responded. “I want to get into the Junior Championship next year. I still haven’t been able to master a triple flip.”

“Viktor,” Artem said exasperatedly. “Is figure skating that important to you?”

“Yes,” Viktor said stubbornly. “And I have to go now.” He checked his watch. “The rink is usually empty around now. It’s easier to practice alone.”

He gave a wave and walked off (well, he sort of ran) to the ice rink. Lacing on his skates, he slid neatly onto the ice.

Circling around the rink, he felt himself relax and unwind. It was _here_ he felt at home, not in his room or at school, but _here_. He skated gracefully across the ice, spinning, trying for a triple salchow and, _yes,_ nailing it.

“ _Zvezda moya_!” He heard a call and turned to see his mother beam at him. “That was beautiful!”

“Thank you,” Viktor said with a grin, doing a little twirl to show off. He lived for validation and attention, loved to make people _feel_ things from his skating. He skated over to his mother, leaning against the rail to look at her. 

“You’re getting taller,” she commented, reaching up to poke his head. “Soon you’ll be taller than your father. Speaking of which,” Her hand slid down to take a strand of his hair. “Are you thinking of cutting your hair any time soon. Your father and I think it’s getting a bit long.”

Viktor’s hands brushed his shoulder-length hair, sweeping it behind his face. “I like it,” he said simply. He was starting to explore different styles, break down boundaries, do the unexpected, because, honestly, fuck gender norms. Of course he didn’t tell his mother that. “I think it looks nicer when I skate,” he settled for. “Besides, it’s different.”

His mother pursed her lips, but she didn’t make any further comment. “How is Yakov doing as your coach?” she asked. “Is he better than the others?” Viktor had gone through a variety of coaches when he was younger, each too restricting on Viktor or simply not good enough, until finally landing on Yakov.

Viktor nodded, “Much better than the other coaches,” he replied. “He’s harder on me, which I think is better, I guess?” He didn’t mention how he pushed his own limits and ignored Yakov’s teachings, because he needed to do _better_ than his parents’ standards, better than what Yakov thought he could do, better than _anyone_ else he competed against.

His mother reached out to take his hand. “You should take a break,” she suggested. “You’ve been juggling schoolwork and skating and it’s really been taking a toll on your body. Hang out with some friends, relax, sleep a little. It’s okay.”

“I need to win the Junior Championships next year,” he said firmly. “I _need_ to. And I can’t land this triple flip and I _should_ but I _can’t_.”

“Vitya,” his mother said softly. “It’s okay if you don’t win the Junior Championships, even if you can’t get into the competition all together.”

Viktor set his jaw. All he saw in his future was figure skating, his one passion was figure skating, and he’d rather skate than do anything else right now. “I need to practice,” he said shortly. “I’ll take a break later.”

“All right,” his mother finally said, reaching over to take his arm. “Come home for dinner, okay?”

“Of course,” Viktor replied. “I won’t be late.”

She smiled. ‘Land that triple flip for me,” she called as she walked away from the ice rink. 

“I will!” Viktor called back. As soon as she left, VIktor closed his eyes, skating in circles for a while. He was going to do it. He was going to perform a triple flip and do it perfectly. For his mother.

He took a breath, skating forward and pushing off on his toe, pressing his legs together, one rotation, two rotations, then--

“Agh!” Viktor gasped as he hit ice on his back, cold and hard, pain shooting up his spine. 

Viktor groaned in frustration, covering his face with his hands, not even bothering to get up.

“That wasn’t too bad,” a voice said from above him. “For a double flip, you had good height. You just need to learn how to land better. You could have at least caught yourself with your hand so you’d stay upright.”

“I can do a double flip, Yakov,” Vikor said through gritted teeth. “I was going for a triple flip.”

He didn’t even need to look to tell that Yakov was frowning. 

“Well, you’re not going to get anywhere by staying there,” he said. “Get up, let’s run over the basics of all the jumps. Have you been able to land a quad salchow yet?”

Viktor shook his head as best he could lying down. Salchows were _hard_.

“A quad toe then?”

“Some of the time,” Viktor replied. “Usually I fall, though.”

“Well,” Yakov said. “We’re going to go through all the jumps, then.”

“Can’t you just teach me how to do a triple flip?” Viktor asked impatiently.

“If you can’t land a double flip, then I see no use in teaching you a triple flip,” Yakov said sternly. He nudged Viktor with his foot. “Get up,” he said again. “You can’t rely solely on your natural talent. You have to _work_ too.”

Viktor heaved himself up, turning to face Yakov. “Okay,” he said. “Teach me.”

He ended up being late to dinner.

* * *

“Viktor, there you are,” his mother said as he came in the house. “I was starting to worry.”

“Sorry,” Viktor said sheepishly. “I ended up practicing more than I thought I would.”

“Did you have a good practice?” she asked, ushering him towards the table. 

“Eh.” Viktor shrugged. “It was okay, I guess.” Looking around, he asked, “Where’s--”

“Your father left this morning for a business trip,” his mother answered. “Did you forget? I think you were skating when he left.”

“Oh,” Viktor said. “Sorry that I missed him.”

“He travels a lot,” his mother said dismissively. “It’s no big deal.” She slid a bowl of borscht across the table towards him, before taking a seat next to him. “Eat up. It’s getting colder by the day.”

He nodded, taking a spoonful of the soup and practically inhaled it, not even caring about the burn it left on his throat and tongue. The sweet and sour taste was comforting--he practically grew up eating this, whether cold or hot, and it tasted even better when he was _starving_.

“Hungry?” his mother asked, amused. “You did a lot of work today.”

“Yeah,” Viktor said, somewhat wearily. “A lot of jumping…I managed to land a quad lutz, though!” he added with a grin. “I think Yakov was proud of that.”

“I’m proud of you as well,” his mother replied. “Are you planning on practicing tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Viktor said, taking another mouthful of soup. “Still need to work on my triple flip and axel.”

“I never expected you to take this so seriously,” his mother said with a laugh. “It took a year to convince you to skate. I thought you’d never do it.”

“I can’t imagine _not_ skating,” Viktor said honestly. “The feeling when I do it is so, so…” he searched for the right word. “ _Exhilarating_. It’s almost like I can’t remember a time where I wasn’t connected to the ice.”

“And you’re juggling school as well?” his mother asked.

“Perfectly,” Viktor responded. School came easily to him as well, being able to pass despite not studying very often. 

“What do you want to be when you grow up, then?” his mother teased him. “A scientist? I heard you do well in that class.”

“I was thinking more of…” Viktor hesitated. “Professional figure skater?”

His mother’s face was unreadable. “That’s...nice,” she said slowly. “But that’s very hard to achieve. Maybe something more...realistic?”

Viktor frowned. “It is realistic,” he protested. “You’ve seen my jumps. I can actually do this! I’ve already won multiple competitions, right? I think I can do it.”

“Okay, _zvezda moya_ ,” his mother said, but he had the feeling she didn’t really believe him.

* * *

His legs were shaking, his hands were shaking, his arms were shaking, his chest was heaving. His eyes were closed (he didn’t remember closing them), so he cracked them open, coming back to reality.

Applause registered in his ears, loud and clear, shouts from the crowds of his name, and he grinned, slowly turning around to look at everyone.

He could see his parents cheering him on, his father mouthing _Amazing!_ and his mother waving frantically.

“That was Viktor Nikiforov competing for his first time in the Junior Grand Prix,” a voice said. “A stunning performance...we’ll see his scores soon.”

Viktor turned to grin at Yakov, skating towards him. Yakov nodded, the very slightest of a smile on his face, and said, “That wasn’t bad, Vitya. Not bad at all.”

Viktor beamed at the praise. “I still can’t believe I’m here,” he breathed, stepping off of the ice. 

“Well, you certainly deserve to be here,” Yakov said. “That was your best performance so far, no doubt.”

Viktor nodded, slightly breathless. It _was_ his best performance, in his opinion, with only a few slip-ups on the jumps. “Your step sequence was very good,” Yakov continued. “But your triple axel could definitely use some work. But not bad, especially for a kid who’s only thirteen.”

There was a hint of pride in his voice. Just maybe.

“Well, come on,” he said gruffly. “Let’s go see what your scores is.”

Viktor was anxious while waiting, foot tapping restlessly on the ground until Yakov warning placed a hand on his knee. He stopped after that.

“And Viktor Nikiforov’s scores are…” Viktor took in a deep breath. “83.5!”

“Yes!” Viktor pumped his fist. 

“He is currently in third place. A guaranteed spot on the podium.”

“You did good, Vitya,” Yakov said with a rare smile. “You did good.”

Viktor beamed, because he knew he did good. He did the best he ever had done.

But standing on the podium, a bronze medal in hand, looking out on the crowd, he couldn’t help but wonder what the top of the world felt like.

So perhaps he did good, he thought, as he was in his room, examining his bronze medal. But he still had a long way to climb.

* * *

“So your second Junior Grand Prix Final,” Georgi said, a hint of jealousy in his voice. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Viktor said, a grin on his face. “I landed third last year and I want to get first this time.” 

“Wow,” Georgi said again, this time quieter. He was twelve, not yet eligible to compete in the Junior Championships, but, judging by his skill, could definitely make it next year, which would mean that the two would be competing against each other. Viktor was okay with that. They had competed together before.

Of course, he had won most of them, which was probably why, more often than not, he’d feel Georgi’s bitter gaze on his back.

He could live with that, though.

“It’s kind of terrifying, to be honest,” Viktor confessed. “There’s so much talent here. Everyone is just so amazing.”

“There’s a pretty good lineup,” Georgi agreed. “I’ve been following the competition so far. You really think you’re going to get gold?”

“Yes,” Viktor said firmly, pushing down that nagging doubt at the back of his head. “I do. And if not gold, at least silver. At _least_.”

“Well, good luck, then,” Georgi said. “But you know that the top Russian figure skater’s going to be me, right?”

Viktor laughed. “No, it’s definitely me,” he said in jest, but they both knew that they weren’t joking and they both knew the other knew they weren’t joking. Viktor had a feeling Georgi was going to be another tough competitor soon.

Viktor caught Yakov’s eye and said quickly, “I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.” “Bye,” Georgi said. “Good luck on the gold.”

Viktor handed the phone to Yakov, who took it, slipping it into his pocket. 

“Ready for your short program?” Yakov asked. 

Viktor took a breath. “Yes,” he said, shoulder squared. “I’m ready.”

To the cheers and applause of the crowd, Viktor walked out towards the ice, a step at a time, counting each ( _one two one two one two_ ) until he set foot on it.

He was going to get the gold _and he was going to make history_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT ENDING AMIRITE? Still getting over it tbh


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for brief anxiety attack

_You can do this_ , Viktor told himself. _You’re in the Junior Grand Prix final for the second time. You won bronze last year. You can do this._

He caught Yakov’s eye, who gave him a reassuring nod. The music started and he began to skate to his short program, thinking carefully about where he stepped next, what jump he was going to perform, calculating his his head how many points he could get.

A triple flip. He stumbled a bit, hand touching down on the ice, but quickly regained his footing and continued.

_Over rotated,_ he thought to himself. _That was okay. It was fine, I’ll just nail the next one_.

He almost fell when trying a triple lutz after doing a double toe loop, but he caught himself just before he could. Hopefully there were enough rotations.

After his step sequence, he was into his second half of the program. Another jump, another one perfect. His next was a triple axel, a hard one for him. However difficult, he had landed it in practice, so he should be able to—

He fell, landing on the ice, grimacing slightly in pain. There wasn’t enough speed, wasn’t enough skill, wasn’t even enough _rotations_ …

But there wasn’t time for analyzing what he did wrong.

He was back on his feet in an instance, finishing his program, stomach churning as he did a combination spin, praying for it all to end. His chest was heaving, a drop of sweat rolling down his neck. And then—

The music stopped. He did his end pose, gasping for a breath.

_Okay_ , he thought. _You did it. You’re okay, okay,_ okay _._

Skating to the exit of the rink, he bit his lip so hard it cut, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He wasn’t going to cry over a few failed jumps, he _wasn’t_.

Yakov opened his mouth, no doubt to reprimand him, but something in Viktor’s eyes made him stopped, because he instead placed a comforting hand on Viktor’s shoulder with the murmur of, “You did your best, Vitya.”

It was supposed to make Viktor feel better, but instead he felt even worse. If _that_ was his best, then how could he ever dream of winning gold?

When his score came out, it wasn’t bad. He was placed in fourth. He still felt like sobbing.

“ _Zvezda moya,_ ” his mother said gently, her voice crackling through the phone. Viktor had called her in a rush before breaking down crying, huddled in a ball at the edge of his bed in his hotel room.

“You made some mistakes,” she murmured. “But, hey, we all do. And it’s okay. You still have your free skate, don’t you? You can get back up, I know it.”

“It’s not just that,” Viktor said, voice ragged. “I’m not enough for this. I tried so hard and I just…” He took a shuddering breath. “I don’t think I’m strong enough for this life.”

“A figure skater’s heart is fragile,” his mother said softly. “It’s spun like glass, easily shattered by the smallest of things. Or perhaps ice would be a better term for it. Easy to thaw, easy to break. And that’s not a bad thing at all, _lyubov moya_. You care so much about this, don’t you? You’re strong enough to continue. I know it.”

“And if I want to quit?” Viktor asked.

“That’s okay too,” she said. “But I don’t think that’s the case.”

“You’re right,” Viktor said quietly. “I want to keep going.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “I wish you were here.”

“I do too,” his mother replied. “Your father sends his love as well. I could grab him to talk to you, but I assumed you’d only have the energy for one of us.”

“You’re right again.” Viktor gave a small laugh. “How are you always right?”

“I’m your mother,” she said, voice warm. “It’s my job. And, also because I’m a mother, I know that you should probably get some sleep. Get some energy for tomorrow. And remember to eat too.”

“I know, I know,” Viktor said.

“All right,” his mother said. “Goodnight, _solnyshko_. You’re going to nail your free program tomorrow. I know it.”

“Thanks, Mama,” Viktor said. “Goodnight.”

He hung up, staring at the phone for a little more, then placing it on his bedside table and climbing into bed.

He didn’t sleep very well that night.

* * *

“Focus,” Yakov muttered as Viktor watched the first skater begin their free program. “Ignore what the other skater is doing.”

A perfect triple axel. A perfect triple lutz, followed by a double toe loop. Perfect, perfect, perfect and _he was not good enough not ready for this not ever going to rise up not ever going to win the gold not worth anything not_

“Breathe,” Yakov said. “In. Out. In. Out.”

Viktor tried to take a breath in, but his breathing was shallow, coming in short gasps. His head was spinning, hands were shaking. He couldn’t move but everything was closing in on himself because _he wasn’t enough._

Yakov clamped his hands around Viktor’s ears. 

“Don’t listen,” he said. “Breathe with me.”

Viktor took a breath. Then another. His breathing steadied. “Thank you,” he choked out. “I think—I think I’m better now.”

“Come on,” Yakov said, leading Viktor away. “You don’t need to watch this.”

They walked over to a secluded spot, Viktor leaning against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting.

“My mother said that skaters have fragile hearts,” he said quietly. “And that they shatter easier.” He closed his eyes, opening them again. “That’s what happened to me. My heart’s shattered. It’s better like this now,” he continued thoughtfully (a voice distantly thinking, in the back of his mind, _wow I didn’t get enough sleep_ ). “I can...focus. Without my feelings getting in the way.”

“That’s not exactly heal—” Yakov started, then cut himself off. “Well. If that’s what helps, then…so be it.” He looked at Viktor a while more, a look of worry on his face, before saying, “It’s almost your turn. Come on.”

Viktor slowly stood up, taking in a breath. It wasn’t a good breath, shuddering and stuttered and weak, but he felt better for it anyway, because he was Viktor Nikiforov and he wasn’t going to let a few _jumps_ get the better of him.

He could do this.

* * *

The silver medal hung next to the bronze in his room, light reflecting off of it from his window. To others, the pair looked beautiful, like the perfect photograph, fit to be posted on his Instagram.

To Viktor, it looked mocking.

He glanced over at his other medals—an array of gold, silver, and bronze from various other competitions (such as the Junior Worlds) and allowed himself small satisfaction on seeing the gold medals.

He turned back to the ones from the Junior Grand Prix Final. 

It wasn’t that he was _ungrateful_ , so to speak, just...disappointed. But underneath that disappointment was a tug in his gut, a feeling that said, _You can rise about everyone. You can do this. You can exceed your own expectations. You can make your parents proud._

There was a knock on his door. “Viktor?” His father. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” he called back and his father opened the door. He crossed the room to sit next to Viktor on his bed.

Viktor looked up. “What is it?” he asked.

His father sighed. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You haven’t been out in a while.”

“Yes I have. I go to the rink every morning,” he pointed out. 

“I mean not figure skating,” his father said. “ _Out_ out. With friends.”

“I haven’t had the time,” Viktor responded simply. “I don't see your point?”

“Viktor,” his father said, in a tone bordering on condescending. “Who's your closest friend?”

Might as well humor him. “Artem,” Viktor answered easily.

“And when was the last time you saw him?”

“I...don’t remember,” he said sheepishly, and at his father’s raised eyebrows, he shot back, “I practice a lot! Besides, most of my friends are in different countries. It’s hard to contact them except through social media.” He frowned. “You make it sound like I’m some social outcast. I’m not. I meet new people every competition I’m in.”

“Your teachers are worried,” his father said. “You were always a smart kid, but now your grades are slipping. You’re too distant with your classmates.”

“It’s hard, okay?” Viktor said, growing defensive. “It’s not so easy to juggle school, a social life, and skating.”

“I know, Vitya,” his father said, voice growing soft. “But we don’t want skating to consume your _life_. How about you go off and meet with your friends now. Take a break from staring at these medals.” He paused. “And we’re proud of you. Remember that, okay?”

“Okay,” Viktor said, the faintest of smiles on his face.

“And one more thing, Viktor,” his father said suddenly.

“Yeah?” Viktor asked.

“Your hair.” His father eyed his long hair critically. “It’s rather... _long_ , isn’t it?”

Viktor huffed, standing up and turning away. “Well _I_ like it,” he said, and suspected it wasn’t the last time he was going to say that.

It was chilly, snow falling down on Viktor and Artem as they walked through Saint Petersburg.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Artem commented, and Viktor winced, because, wow, he really was a shit friend. “I’ve watched you skate on T.V. You’re pretty good.”

“Not good enough,” Viktor muttered, blinking as a snowflake fell in his eye. “That’s why I’ve been practicing so much.”

Artem hummed in response, but Viktor could tell he didn’t understand. Not really. “I see,” he said. 

“What about you?” Viktor asked. “What are you up to?”

Artem shrugged. “Not much,” he said. “I’m trying to study more, but,” He laughed. “Studying Isn't the best way to spend time, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Viktor responded. Silence fell, the conversation short and painful. It wasn’t always like this, Viktor thought. They had never not been able to talk.

“Well, um,” Artem said, in an attempt to move the conversation. “I was going to head over to my friend’s house. You could come…?”

“Oh,” Viktor said, looking up and watching as snow began to fall even harder. “No, I’m good,” he said slowly. “You go on without me. I think—” He paused, before allowing a soft smile to spread on his face. “I think I’ll go skate.”

“You really like skating, huh?” Artem said, shaking his head incredulously. “Well, see you later.”

“See you,” Viktor said. He probably wasn’t.

They had both begun to walk away before Artem turned around and yelled, “And what's with the long hair, Viktor?”

“I like it!” Viktor yelled back. He turned towards the direction of the skating rink, walking through the mostly-empty streets.

The wind was cold, snow still falling steadily around him. A snowflake landed on his eyelash and he inexplicably last, twirling around in a circle, because, hey, when was the last time he got to appreciate the smaller things in life?

Wow, he sounded like an old man instead of a fourteen year old. He shook his head at himself, strands of hair falling in his face. He neatly tied his hair back, noting how, even tied back, it nearly reached his waist. 

Walking to the ice rink, he attracted a few stares, some who eyed his hair critically, most smiling and waving at him with the occasional teasing “Off to the rink again, Viktor?” or “Bring back a gold for us!” and he’d grin back and wave. He adored the attention skating brought him, proud that _he_ was the one representing them.

The building was mostly empty when Viktor walked in, a few skater nodding to him as he walked in. He laced on his skates quickly, before standing up and walking towards the rink. He smiled slightly, remembering how once, a long time ago, he’d wobble while wearing the blades.

Sliding smoothly onto the ice, Viktor skated languidly, with not much of a purpose as just to be there. It was calming, a soothing motion that he—

“Viktor!”

Viktor nearly fell, whirling around to see Yakov. “You scared me!” he said, a hand to his heart in an over exaggerated pantomime of fear. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” Yakov said, motioning for Viktor to come closer. He did, leaning against the railing to look at Yakov.

“Yeah?” he asked. “What’s about? That your wife left you?”

“You know about that?” Yakov asked indignantly.

Viktor shrugged. “ _Everyone_ knows about that,” he replied.

“ _Anyway_ , this is about how you won a silver medal,” Yakov said, and Viktor nearly groaned. _Not this again._ “And how the winner of the bronze medal stole the show.”

“What?” Viktor asked, frowning. 

“The skater from China, I believe,” Yakov said. “While you earned higher marks, he was the one who captured the audience.”

“Captured the…” Viktor paused. “What do you mean?”

“His step sequence, the way he skated, the emotion and story behind his programs...He put on a show. You didn’t.” Yakov stared down at Viktor (or up because Viktor was beginning to grow taller than Yakov). “Figure skating isn’t all about the jumps, you know. Your skating has to _tell_ something too.”

“I—don’t understand,” Viktor said. 

Yakov sighed. “Your skating has to tell a story, Vitya,” he said. “You always say how the ice brings you to life, don’t you? Then put some of that, some of _you_ into your skating.” At Viktor’s blank expression, Yakov clapped his shoulder. “You’ll figure it out,” he said. “I’ll leave you to your practicing then.” He walked off, Viktor staring after him.

“Huh,” Viktor murmured to himself. “Put some life to it.” 

He fingered his hair, thoughtfully, leaning against the railing and looking as other people began to fill the skating rink. 

He could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of wanted to show how Viktor would've thought that "shattering Yuuri's heart" was a good idea and I also wanted to show a moment of weakness for him and mirror it to Yuuri's. Next chapter includes Viktor's skate with Yuuri's Eros outfit and him questioning his sexuality. A lot.


	4. Chapter 4

“Are you sure about this?” his mother asked as they walked through the supermarket. “It’s not very often—”

“Guys paint their nails, I know,” Viktor said, suppressing an eyeroll. At sixteen, it may have been odd to beg his mother for nail polish, of all things, but ever since he was little he had wanted to try it, and now he had the perfect excuse to. “But in my freeskate I want to demonstrate the blurred lines between the different genders, especially with my long hair and—” He stopped, realizing that his mother probably didn’t want to hear him ramble and ended with a lame “and that’s why.”

“Well, okay,” his mother said. “If that’s what you really want.” She led him over to the beauty supplies, stopping in front of a wall of colors.

Viktor’s mouth dropped open. “There are so many!” he said in awe. “Which color should I get?” His fingers skimmed the bottles, examining their titles and labels.

“How about one that matches your costume?” his mother suggested. 

“Of course!” Viktor snapped his fingers, thinking towards the black and silver outfit. He deftly snatched up a bottle and held it up to his mother. “Hot pink?”

His mother pursed her lips. “I was thinking more towards black,” she said, plucking the bottle out of his hands and exchanging it for black. 

“But it’s so boring,” Viktor complained.

“And it matches,” his mother said. “I don’t know where you got _hot pink_ from, honestly…”

“Fine,” Viktor said. “We’ll go with black. And also I need new hair ties. I keep losing them.” He hopefully added, “And can _those_ be bright colors?”

Viktor’s mother sighed, but there was affection clear in her eyes when she said, “Okay. Those can be bright colors.”

* * *

Standing in front of the mirror, Viktor felt a spark of pride as he stared at his costume. He had helped design it, after all. The half skirt flared out as he spun around, revealing the red underside. The silver embellishments gleamed in the light and _it was just so beautiful!_ He angled his head back and forth, enjoying the feel of his hair swishing back and forth. His nails were painted black (hot pink would’ve looked better). It had taken practice to paint his nail cleanly and neatly, but he had finally nailed it (pun not intended).

“Are you done admiring yourself?” Yakov asked and Viktor straightened himself.

“Yes, Coach Yakov!” he chirped back, zipping on his runner jacket over his costume and heading out towards the rink.

The Junior World Championships were a big deal, and everything seemed deathly quiet as he walked, skates making a _clip-clop_ sound as they touched the ground. It wasn't quiet in fact, far from it, as the audience was cheering for the last skater who had just finished, but to VIktor nothing else seemed to matter but what _he_ was doing right now. He was currently in first place and this free skate was the only way to secure it.

“Remember,” Yakov said. “Keep your head on straight. Remember to breathe. And don’t perform that triple flip. You still haven't been able to land it." Viktor nodded, barely listening to Yakov.

“Next up, with have sixteen year old Viktor Nikiforov from Russia.” Viktor flashed what he hoped was a charming smile at the audience, skating to the middle of the rink, waiting for his music to start.

And then he skated. 

This time he didn’t bother calculating how many points he’d get. He didn’t focus solely on the jumps or how what place he’d land or worry about if he was going to mess up. He skated to the music, expressing how he felt on the ice, how thin he felt the lines between masculinity and femininity were for him at the very moment. Being fifteen, his body was ambiguous in gender, and he used it in his skate.

He lost himself halfway through his program, so encaptured in his story and the music that he was just skating on almost muscle memory, performing flawless jump after flawless jump. But to make the skate even better, to make it even more groundbreaking, to surprise the audience with a jump he had never done before, he could…

“Nikiforov has landed a perfect triple flip!” Viktor’s lips twitched up in a smile at the gasps of the audience. He continued to finish his free skate, moving into the second half of the program, skating just as beautifully as the first. He didn’t even notice the music was growing to an end until it did.

When he finished, his chest was heaving, but he was grinning, breathless and exhilarated. There was a stunned sort of silence when he finished before people started to clap harder than he had ever heard any sort of applause for himself, cheering and calling out to him.

He grinned, waving at the audience and practically basking in their cheers, before skating towards the exit. “I did great, didn’t I?” he asked Yakov eagerly. 

“Better than you have ever done before,” Yakov said. “Though you performed that triple flip that I _specifically_ told you not to do! You could have fallen!”

Viktor shrugged easily. “Well, I nailed it, didn’t I?”

Yakov was furious, but Viktor couldn’t bring himself to care too much, because, standing on the first place podium, a gleaming gold medal in his hand, he felt as though he was standing on the top of the world.

* * *

At sixteen, he had won the Junior World Championships, but at a more... _local_ level, he had also successfully charmed his entire school. 

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best way to put it. He was naturally likeable, with many friends (hardly any close, though—he didn’t have time for that), a favorite among teachers, and was the subject of many crushes and _knew_ it.

Something must have happened while Viktor was daydreaming in class, because now suddenly everyone was talking about _who liked who_ and _he’s dating her_ and _she broke up with him_ and everything like that. He seemed to be surrounded by grapevines of gossip, wondering what the heck he was supposed to do as his friends started to date other people. So he thought, _hey, I’ll give that a shot._

Viktor was, to be brutally honest, a player.

He flirted with everything and anything, dated girls for a week before breaking up again, moving through girlfriends quicker than he could perform a quad loop. Of course, he wasn’t intentionally a heartbreaker, but more of a free and flitting spirit (or told himself he was to make him feel a bit better).

“Our little one isn’t so little now!” his father said with a laugh, ruffling Viktor’s hair affectionately. “Who knew he could be such a charmer?”

“Nothing like his father, I see,” Viktor’s mother said dryly. “He must get it from me.” She winked at Viktor.

“When can we see this girl of yours?” his father asked. “What’s her name? Alina?”

“Alina was last week,” Viktor said breezily, polishing his skates. “I’m dating Sofia now?”

His mother faltered. “Last week?” she asked. “ _Bozhe moi_! You really go through them fast, don’t you?” She locked eyes with his father, as if wondering what to say.

Viktor blinked, confused. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” his father muttered. He gave Viktor a smile. “On second thought, let’s put that meeting with Sofia on a hold.”

That turned out to be a good idea, because Viktor, being Viktor, broke up with her in three weeks.

* * *

“How’s your skating going?” asked Alexander, one of Viktor’s friends (or, more accurately, _acquaintances)_ when Viktor hung out with them on the rare occasions he wasn’t practicing.

“Pretty well,” Viktor responded. He could’ve gone in depth about how he had landed a perfect triple flip, but he had a feeling that Alexander was asking purely out of politeness. 

“You’re kind of famous, aren’t you?” Nikita commented. “I mean, you’re on T.V and everything.”

VIktor laughed. “I _wish_ I were famous,” he said jokingly. “But, no, I’m not. It’s not like I have fans anywhere.’

Alexander arched an eyebrow. “Really?” he said disbelievingly. “Because it sounds like that in school. Everyone always talks about you.”

VIktor waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, I’m sure it wasn’t me. I’m not famous at all.”

“Okay,” Nikita said uncertainly. He seemed as if he was going to ask something more when Kirill spoke up.

“You’re not dating anyone at the time, are you?” he asked and Viktor shook his head. At that, Kirill looked surprised.

“Why is that so surprising?” Viktor said, puzzled.

“You have a new girlfriend constantly,” Alexander pointed out. “I don’t even know how you do it.”

“It’s my naturally good looks,” Viktor said, throwing a wink at Alexander who laughed, shaking his head.

“But seriously,” Nikita said. “You can’t stay with _anyone?_ ”

Viktor shrugged. “No one really feels right,” he said airily. “I mean, I don’t even know _who_ I like.” It wasn’t like _he_ knew how a crush felt like. All he had was teen romcom novels to go off of and he was pretty sure his heart didn’t do any of this _skipping_ or whatever the heck they said.

“Huh,” Kirill said, but he didn’t seem too concerned as he and the other two talked about who knows what—Viktor didn’t care and he really just wanted to skate, goddamnit.

Still he couldn’t help but wonder why he never understood when his friends pointed out how attractive other girls were, or talked about dating girls or how they _wanted_ to date girls, and could only think:

_Is there something wrong?_

_Is this normal?_

_Am I broken?_

And the butterflies he had in his stomach when that one cute guy walked into math class every day had nothing to do with it.

* * *

“Hey! Viktor!” Viktor looked up from practicing at the sound of Artem’s voice. He was trying to hang out more often with Artem, his last close friend, and Artem did too, as he took it upon himself to drop by the skating rink every so often.

“Artem, hi!” Viktor said with a grin, his heart skipping a beat at Artem’s smile (no it didn’t… heart’s didn’t skip beats unless he had _heart palpitations_ …) “What’s up?” He skated over to him, exiting the rink and fumbling to take off his skates.

“Nothing much,” Artem responded. “You’ve been gone for a long time.”

“Yeah,” Viktor said, wincing slightly. “I think I have a million blisters.” 

“Ow,” Artem said sympathetically. “You need to take a break.” He sat down, gesturing for Viktor to join him. “I also don’t think you had lunch so,” He thrust a bag at VIktor. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Viktor said, opening the bag to find a sandwich and taking a bite of it, not realizing how hungry he was until now. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“That’s what I”m for, huh?” Artem said, nudging Viktor with his elbow. “Making sure you don’t die.” He slung an arm around Viktor, pulling him in closer (and Viktor did _not_ let out an indescribable squeak at that). “You’re lucky you’ve got me around.”

“Yup,” Viktor agreed, face heating up (why? It was freezing in the skating rink). “You’ve found out my secret. I’m only friends with you for your food.” 

Artem laughed, not letting go of Viktor, and Viktor thought _please please please let go of me because I’ll spontaneously combust otherwise_ before Artem said, “You're kind of amazing, you know. I never thought skating could be so...beautiful.” He smiled. “So thanks, I guess. For showing me that.”

“Anytime,” Viktor managed.

Artem finally withdrew his hand away, to Viktor’s relief and disappointment, and stood up. “I should go,” he said. “I still haven’t started on my homework.”

“Smart,” Viktor said dryly and Artem laughed again.

“Bye, Viktor,” he said with a wave. “Good luck on your next competition.”

“Bye,” Viktor said back, staring as Artem darted out from the ice rink. His stomach was churning and he didn’t know why, hands gripping too tightly onto his skates.

He turned around to see Yakov enter the rink, eyebrows raised at him.

“What?” Viktor asked.

Yakov shook his head, avoiding the question and saying instead, “I thought you’d be here. Go home, you’ve practiced long enough.” 

“But—" Viktor started to protest and Yakov raised his hand.

“Go home, Viktor,” Yakov said. “You need some time to think.”

Viktor gave up, putting away his skates and bidding Yakov a goodbye, before going home. He ended up spending all night thinking, waking up in the morning, the unsolved question still fresh in his mind. 

_What the heck is happening to me?_

* * *

Viktor finally settled on a girlfriend by the name of Karina when he was seventeen. She was nice, blonde haired and blue eyed, exceptionally smart, and a good friend. 

(He still saw her as just a friend. But maybe that’d change).

The two were hanging out at her place, sitting on the couch side by side in comfortable silence. He had stopped by after practicing, grateful for an escape. Skating, while fun, was so _tiring_. Karina had flicked on the TV as background noise, scrolling absentmindedly on some social media site on her phone.

Viktor reached back and pulled out his hair tie, letting long hair spill over his shoulders, letting out a sigh of relief at the escape of the too-tight ponytail.

Karina looked up, eyes falling on Viktor, stare lingering. Viktor frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” Karina said. “I like your hair.” She reached out, picking up a strand of hair and dropping it again. “It’s nice.” 

“You like it?” Viktor asked. He was still somewhat self-concious of it, both for the length and the silver color. 

“Yeah,” Karina said. “I like it long. I don’t see why everyone wants you to cut it.”

“It’s because people think that everyone should conform to gender stereotypes—” Viktor started but Karina cut him off.

“I know,” she said with a wry smile. “You don’t have to lecture _me_ on sexism. Anyway,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in, like, forever. What’s up with that?”

Viktor winced. “Sorry about that,” he said. “It’s just skating. Coach Yakov is pretty...strict,” he settled on. “On top of that is schoolwork and, well…” He sighed again. “It’s just tough.”

Karina nodded sympathetically. “Can’t blame you for that,” she murmured. She hesititated, before speaking again. “People worry about you, Viktor,” she said. “I worry, my friends worry, our teachers worry, my parents worry, Artem worries…”

“Artem’s worried about me?” Viktor asked suddenly. “What did he say?”

Karina bit her lip, looking sideways at Viktor before answering. “Oh, he just says you work a lot. Not much.” She continued to look carefully at Viktor, as if gauging his response.

“Oh,” Viktor said, feeling somewhat disappointed at the lack of information. “Okay. I hope he knows that I’m okay. I’m glad he cares, though.”

“Well, I hope you know _I_ care about you too,” Karina muttered and Viktor blinked. Karina waved her hand. “Nothing, nothing.”

Viktor nodded slowly. They fell into silence again.

Finally Karina spoke. “I just _miss_ you sometimes,” she said. She turned to face him, hands moving to rest on his. “You’re always so busy. I feel like I hardly get to see my boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry,” Viktor said quietly. “Figure skating comes with sacrifices.” _Sacrifices I’m willing to make_.

Karina leaned closer to him, and his heart stopped, not in an _I’m-so-in-love_ kind of way, but more in a _what-the-fuck-is-happening_ way. “But I mean,” she continued. “Might as well make the most of our time together?”

She was nervous too, he could tell, but obviously the braver of the two, tugging him closer to pull him into a kiss.

It was awkward at first, lips just brushing each other, and Viktor couldn’t help but think _...So what?_

He was supposed to like it. He knew that. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the taste of her strawberry chapstick or the feel of her hands in his, or the closeness of their bodies, or _any_ of it, so he placed a hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her back.

Karina, blinked, looking surprised and a little dazed. “Viktor?”

“I—can’t,” Viktor said, finding himself unable to explain himself. “I just...can’t.”

Karina nodded, eyes sad, and Viktor felt the need to reassure her. “Maybe I’m not ready,” he said quickly, hands moving to take hers. “I just need time,”

“Viktor, no,” Karina said, batting his hands away. They fell limply onto the couch. “I should’ve known.” She laughed harshly. “I _did_ know, I just wanted to ignore it. But that’s not fair to you or me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t like me,” Karina said. “As a friend, yes, but not as...a girlfriend. You don’t like girls at all, do you?”

Viktor’s mouth hung open. “I don’t…”

“Viktor,” Karina sai, sounding slightly exasperated. "You're gay, aren't you?"

Viktor held up his hands, shaking his head rapidly. “No, no, no, no, no,” he said. “I am _not_ gay. That’s not me.”

“You like Artem,” Karina pushed on. “I’ve seen the way you look at him and the way you look at me. You’ll never look at me that way.”

Viktor choked. “ _Like_ Artem? No way. He’s my friend. Not at all. Nope. Not gay. I mean,” He raked a hand through his hair. “You can just _like_ the way someone looks in a non-platonic way, right? Just because I like guys doesn’t mean I _like_ them.” But everything seemed to be falling in place, the crush on his classmate in fifth grade, his celebrity crush on that skater in middle school, how when other guys would be staring at girls, he’d be looking at their boyfriends, the way he felt about Artem, the way he _didn’t_ feel about Karina…

“Oh my god.” He hid his face in his hands, tears starting to roll down his cheeks. He didn’t even know _why_ he was crying. It was almost as if his world was turned upside down and everything anyone has ever told him was uprooted. “I am—I like—Karina, I—”

Karina immediately drew him into a hug, her presence warm and comforting. “It’s okay, Viktor,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

Viktor finally drew away, wiping his eyes. “Sorry,” he choked out, voice raspy. “It’s just. Overwhelming.”

Karina nodded slowly. “It’s _okay_ ,” she repeated. 

“What am I going to tell my parents?” he whispered. 

“Tell them when you’re ready,” she said. “They’ll accept you. You know they will.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I led you on, telling you I loved you when I—"

“Hey, now,” Karina said jokingly. “You can still love me platonically! It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

Viktor took a breath, closing his eyes and opening them again, going through the same routine he did whenever he got anxious before a match. “I think I always knew as well,” he said softly. “I just didn’t want to believe it.”

“So what now?” Karina asked. 

“I think…” Viktor stood up. “I think I need time to think.” He retrieved his coat from the rack, swinging it on, pausing to hug Karina again. “Thank you for everything.”

“It’s what a friend would do,” Karina said. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

Viktor nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”

“Okay,” Karina said. “Well. See you tomorrow.”

Viktor nodded, stepping out of her house and into the rapidly darkening evening. He looked back at Karina once, who had closed the door behind him before walking up the street, towards his own house.

The night air of early spring was still cold, a faint breeze whistling through his hair as he stared downwards, eyes glued to the sight of his feet stepping one by one on the pavement.

There was a whirlwind of emotions inside of him, making him want to laugh or cry or possibly both at the same time, but he did know one thing, as clear as the moon above the cloudless sky.

Everything was sort of starting to make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear some things up, I'm sticking to canon as strictly as possible, which basically means a virtually homophobia-free world (which I think was confirmed in an interview). I also have never had a crush on anyone in my life so I have no idea how to write that lol.
> 
> tbh i feel really bad for all of viktor's girlfriends.
> 
> And thanks for 100 kudos! It really means a lot to me, along with everyone's comments <3


	5. Chapter 5

Viktor huffed out a breath, shoving his hands inside his pockets to protect from the wind. The streets were mainly empty and they were quiet. Peaceful. They let him gather his thoughts.

So.

He liked guys. He liked his probably-straight best friend. And he mainly just wanted to fall to the ground and sleep because he had never felt more tired in his life.

“So what now?” he muttered to himself. “What are you going to do now?” Not tell his parents, that was for sure. And also worry. A lot.

He walked on, now coming up to his house. He was glad he had shot a quick text to his parents who would’ve been sick with worry if he had come home so late like this. He took another step when he heard something behind him.

Viktor whirled around, eyes darting left and right for the source of the sound. He shivered slightly, cursing himself for reading too many horror stories before continuing on.

And then he heard a bark. It was unmistakingly a bark, followed by the click-clack of paws and he turned around again to see a poodle.

He was brown and fluffy and kind of small, with dark eyes and a lolling tongue. He padded towards Viktor, sitting down directly in front of him and tilting his head. He let out another bark, staring up at Viktor.

“Hi,” Viktor said. 

The dog didn’t respond. Obviously.

“Um.” Viktor, unsure what to do, patted the stray dog’s head once , the fur warm and soft, before turning on heel to walk away.

The click-clack noise followed him and Viktor turned around to see the poodle following him, looking up at him with hopeful eyes. Viktor rolled his eyes, continuing to walk.

“Go away,” Viktor called over his shoulder. “Don’t you have an owner?” Evidently not, as the poodle continued to follow.

Viktor sighed, because he really _was_ tired, and knelt down, eye-to-eye with the dog. “Go. Away,” he said, knowing full well he couldn’t understand him. Viktor pushed the dog’s head back. “Go.”

The poodle stared at him with unblinking eyes before jumping on him.

Viktor squeaked as he was knocked down, a tongue lapping at his face. Viktor pushed him away, struggling to sit up. 

“What was up with that?” he demanded and the dog chose to respond by leaping on him again. 

Once Viktor managed to shake the poodle off, he sat cross-legged on the cold pavement, watching as the poodle ran in circles around him. He couldn’t help but smile at the dog’s excitement.

“Well,” Viktor said aloud to himself (and, fine, to the poodle as well). “I guess it’s not really my fault if you follow me home. And follow me into my house. And stay with me for the rest of my life.” He laughed as the poodle licked his face again, petting his soft fur.

Viktor stood up, the dog practically bouncing at his heels. “Then, come on.” The poodle followed him closely to his house. Well, it was an apartment building, more accurately, but he called it his home all the same.

Viktor quietly walked to the door to his apartment, hissing at the dog to be quiet in the hallways.

He quietly unlocked the door and slipped into his house, carefully making sure his parents weren’t in the living room to see the dog.

“Viktor?” his mother called from her and his father’s bedroom. “Are you home?”

“Yes,” Viktor called back, grabbing onto the poodle to prevent him from running through the room. 

“It’s rather late,” she said. “We were just heading to bed. Do you need anything?”

“No,” Viktor said quickly, shooting a glare as the poodle struggled to escape his hold. “You go to bed. I’m fine.”

“Okay, _zvezda moya_ ,” she replied. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Viktor breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped off his coat, quietly ushering the dog into his room and locking the door. The poodle immediately jumped on his bed and sat there, staring at him with shining eyes.

“You,” Viktor said. “Are going to get me in so much trouble.” Even so, he sat down beside him and began to stroke his fur. “But I need a name for you.” He checked for a collar and couldn’t find one, beaming at the thought of the dog having no owner and being _his_. 

“What to name you,” he murmured aloud, flipping through names. “How about... _Sobaka_?”

The poodle blinked at him, unimpressed. Okay, that was a pretty lame name.

Viktor swept his room for inspiration, looking around at his posters of skaters and one of a ninja (yes, he liked ninjas), a potted plant in his windowsill, and a cluttered desk. He flopped down on his bed, watching as the poodle laid down beside him.“ Hmm…” he muttered, jumbling words and sounds in his head. “How about...Makkachin?”

Makkachin seemed satisfied with that, lying his head down on the bed and closing his eyes. 

Viktor smiled at him, before closing his eyes and falling asleep, feeling happy for the first time today with Makkachin curled up beside him.

* * *

Viktor woke up to his mother’s shout. He squeezed his eyes shut against the morning light, burying his face in his pillow. It was the weekend, and he was, by no means, going to wake up _early_. He was just on the brink of falling asleep again when he heard:

“Why is there a _dog_ in the house?”

“Shit,” Viktor swore, bolting up and throwing off his blankets. He looked frantically around for Makkachin but his eyes landed instead on his cracked open door. “Oh no,” he muttered, running out of his room. 

His mother was staring open-mouthed at Makkachin as he looked up at her, tail swishing back and forth. At the sight of Viktor, he bounded over to him, stopping as soon as Viktor reached down to pet him.

“VIktor…” his mother said, voice dangerously low, a glint in her eyes. “Did you bring…”

“He was out in the streets!” Viktor protested, dropping down to hug Makkachin. “In the _freezing streets_! I couldn’t just leave him alone!” 

“You don’t know where that thing’s been,” his father said adamantly. “For all you know he could have some disease.”

“He looks like he used to have an owner,” Viktor said, scratching Makkachin’s ear. “He’s really well-behaved. Can I keep him? Please?”

Viktor’s mother closed her eyes. “Viktor,” she said, and Viktor winced, knowing the full wrath of her anger. “You know this apartment doesn’t allow dogs.”

“Look at this face,” Viktor pleaded, shaking Makkachin. “Look how much he loves it here already.”

His father raised his eyebrows at his mother, probably thinking, _why the heck is our seventeen year old son acting five all of a sudden?_ and his mother sighed. “You didn’t name it already, did you?” she asked.

“His name is Makkachin,” Viktor replied and his mother sighed again.

“Okay, Vitya,” she said and Viktor smiled, knowing she was softening at the new use of his nickname. “If you take care of him and make sure the landlord doesn’t see him then...maybe we’ll keep him.”

Viktor lit up, running to his mother and hugging her. His mother laughed, hugging him back. “But if we get in trouble because of you,” she warned him. “Makkachin goes.”

“Okay,” Viktor agreed. “That’s fair enough.”

“Makkachin, huh?” his father said, looking at Makkachin. “Where’d you get that name?” 

Viktor shrugged. “Just made it up,” he said. “I think it suits him.”

His mother smiled. “Well, then, welcome to the family, Makkachin,” she said. “We’ll pick up food and supplies for him later.”

Viktor grinned, hugging Makkachin. “Thank you,” he said. 

“So you have a dog now,” his father noted. “Anything else you need to tell us?”

“Um,” Viktor said, because he _could_ tell them something else. He could tell them how he had recently broke up with his girlfriend, one his parents loved. He could tell them that he looked at boys the way most looked at girls. He could tell them that he was, for the first time, completely terrified of what they had to say. “There _is_ something…” He sat down on the couch, Makkachin jumping up to sit beside him.

“What did you do now, Vitya?” his mother asked, tone joking, but he felt worse, thinking as if his sexuality was a _problem_. A _mistake_. “Viktor?” she said, looking slightly worried now.

Viktor sucked in a breath. He didn’t know how to tell them, wishing there was some sort of class in school called _how to tell your parents you’re really fucking gay_. “So,” he said. “You know how you always tell me you want me to marry a girl?” he said, squeezing his eyes shut because _what the heck was he saying?_ “Well, I don’t want that. At all.”

“Viktor,” his father said, obviously confused.

“I don’t like girls...like that,” Viktor continued, stumbling over his words. “Romantically. I didn’t realize it until now…”

“Viktor, what are you talking about?’ his father said, obviously exasperated.

“I’m really fucking gay,” Viktor said, letting out a breath. “That’s it. I like guys.”

His parents expressions were blank, turning to look at each other, disbelief clearly written on their faces.

“You’re still young,” his mother said, gently, _condescendingly_. “It’s probably just a phase. When you’re older, you’ll see…”

Viktor’s hands tightened in Makkachin’s fur and he yelped. Viktor loosened his grip, glaring at his parents. “I’m seventeen years old,” Viktor snapped. “I know myself better than either of you. And I know how I feel and it’s not going to change anytime soon. This isn’t some... _choice_ I can make.” He bit his lip, looking down. “And if you can’t accept that…”

“ _Solnyshko,_ no,” his mother said quickly. “It’s just…” She locked eyes with his father, before looking back at Viktor. “Are you sure?”

“More than anything.”

“Then we’re sure too,” she said softly, moving to hug him. “It’s just...unexpected that’s all. But please,” she whispered. “Don’t ever think that you can’t tell us anything.”

“You’re our only child,” his father added, hand reaching out towards Viktor. “We care more about you than the world.”

“Okay,” Viktor whispered. “I--” He cleared his throat. “I have to get ready for figure skating after breakfast.” He pulled away from his mother. “The European Championships are coming up, after all.”

“Ah, okay,” his mother said. She could probably tell the situation was awkward enough for him and stood up. “I’ll go make something while you get dressed.”

Thirty minutes later, Viktor was tying back his hair with a bagel in his mouth, still marveling how nothing changed at all since he came out. His parents wished him goodbye, reminding him to come back before lunch before he was out the door, walking to the skating rink, Makkachin at his heels.

Well, maybe things _had_ changed, he thought as he squinted against the morning sun. Because how much lighter he felt.

* * *

“You’re late,” Yakov noted as Viktor slid into the skating rink. Fifteen year old Georgi was there as well, looking as if he were in the middle of practicing his free program.

“Why is there a _dog_ here?” Georgi asked, frowning at Makkachin, who was sitting outside the skating rink, watching Viktor with his tongue hanging out.

“His name is Makkachin,” Viktor said, deflecting the question. “Isn’t he adorable?”

“Why were you late?” Yakov asked instead. 

“I was talking with my parents,” Viktor said. “It took longer than expected.” He paused, not knowing what to say, before, “I’m gay.”

“Uh-huh,” Yakov said uninterestedly. “Start your warm-ups. We’re going over the choreography for your short program.”

Viktor blinked. “Okay,” he said, skating over to the rail to start his stretches.

“And Viktor!” Yakov called and Viktor turned to look at him. “Tell us something we don’t know next time.”

Viktor simply grinned back. _He was going to be okay_

Once Viktor had warmed up, Yakov approached him. “I’ve choreographed your routine,” he said. “Let’s start going over it today.”

“I was thinking that maybe _I_ could choreograph my own program,” VIktor said. “It’d be fun.”

“It’d be a train wreck,” Yakov said dryly. ‘Leave it to me. Maybe when you’re older.”

VIktor bit his lip, but nodded. It wasn’t like he was going to listen to Yakov anyway.

* * *

There were times where he really hated English. It was confusing, as learning any language was, and to learn it along with French was even worse. But once he started meeting people from all over the world who _didn’t_ speak Russian he realized it was the only way to communicate.

The European Championships weren’t worldwide, but it sometimes felt like that. He flitted around, talking to other competitors from different countries and not-so-subtly checking out that one guy from Italy. He reconnected with old friends, promising to contact them through social media whenever possible. He felt so much more _himself_ here with other figure skaters than he ever had back at Saint Petersburg with his classmates. 

He was currently talking in French with a young woman named Juliette, who was also competing, pausing every so often to kindly correct him on his grammar.

“This is my first time here,” she said. “I’m so nervous!”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Viktor reassured her. “But,” he confessed. “I’m nervous too.”

“You don’t seem like it,” the skater replied. “You always look so confident.”

Viktor shrugged. “I feel better when I’m on the ice. I lose myself in my skating.”

“I get that,” Juliette said thoughtfully. “But I’m still nervous. I didn’t do so well in my short program. You had a near flawless program.”

Viktor grimaced. “Don’t remind me of that failed quad,” he said with a sigh. “But I hope to see you on the podium.”

“You as well,” she said. She opened her mouth to say more, but Yakov called, 

“Viktor! It’s almost your turn.”

“Good luck,” Juliette said. Before he could go, she grabbed his arm, scrawling something on a piece of paper and giving it to him--it was her instagram.

“Follow me,” she said with a wink. “We figure skaters should stick together, right?”

Viktor grinned. “Right,” he said. Turning to Yakov, he called over his shoulder, “I’ll see you at the Worlds!”

“Let’s both hope for that!”

He walked towards Yakov, the smile melting off his face at the thought of his free program.

“You’ll do fine,” Yakov said. “Now let’s go.”

* * *

Viktor was a hundred percent certain Yakov was going to kill him when they were back home at Saint Petersburg. He had changed his program a little bit (okay a lot) and had added another quad that he was specifically told not to. 

_But then again_ , Viktor thought as he stared out at the crowd, a grin on his face, flowers in his hand, a flower crown perched open his head, and a gold medal on his neck. _I won, didn’t I?_

The skater flanking his sides, didn’t seem as satisfied with their placements, but Viktor was ecstatic. He felt confident enough to do anything, with his long hair and silver-embellished outfit. 

_I’m going to win the Worlds_ , he thought. But right now...he could breathe.

As he exited the rink, he paused as a voice called out, “Viktor! Congrats!”

He looked up, confused, scanning the audience, until his eyes landed on a fifteen-year old with curly gold hair and shining eyes.

He smiled. “What’s your name?” he called up to him. 

“Christophe Giacometti,” the boy answered and Viktor’s smile widened. He recognized him, a skater who had just made his senior debut.

“Okay,” he replied, making a split second decision. Viktor tossed him a rose, and he caught it, stunned.

“Chris,” he said. “See you at the Worlds.”

He waved, walking out, one rose less and smile wider.

He may never see that boy again, may never even _hear_ of him, but knowing there were people out there looking up to him made his heart warm, a feeling that gave him even more elation than the cheers of the audience. 

So this was what it was like to become famous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes the most cliched way to get a pet dog


	6. Chapter 6

> 2,560 likes
> 
> _A picture is posted of Viktor at the ice rink._
> 
> **v-nikiforov** practicing at saint petersburg!
> 
> 1,483 comments

Viktor stared at his phone, not quite comprehending what he was seeing. He had known that he had a lot of followers, but never actually _looked_ at the feedback from what he posted. But _two thousand likes? One thousand comments?_ From a slightly blurred _selfie?_ He shook his head, scrolling down the comments, seeing caps-locked comments and excited chatter.

“What is it?” Georgi asked, skating towards him. The two were practicing together at the rink while Yakov was working with a new student. He had only briefly introduced himself to her before sliding onto the ice, but a quick glance over caught her red hair and the bright eyes of a nine year old. He could hardly remember her name, though. Mila, was it?

He looked away from her, focusing on Georgi. “Look,” he said, showing him his phone. “I didn’t even know that many people liked my photos.”

“You’re popular,” Georgi said, as if it were obvious. “Haven’t you noticed how many fans you have?”

Viktor blinked. “Well...yeah,” he said slowly. “I mean people cheer for me at competitions…”

“Viktor,” Georgi said. “You have fan blogs. People have posters of you. You’re famous!”

“Huh,” Viktor said, staring at his phone once more. “Famous.” He shot a grin at Georgi. “Doesn’t _feel_ any different,” he joked. 

Georgi didn’t smile, instead saying, “Come on. We should practice.”

Viktor nodded, knowing better than to continue talking about his fame. Georgi’s dream was to be Russia’s top figure skater, but with the way it was going, it seemed like Viktor was much more closer to reaching that goal.

And while he was happy that people knew of him and actually _liked_ him, he felt as though another weight had been placed on his shoulders. Now he had thousands of people waiting on him to amaze them, to surprise them, to bring forth something to the ice that no one had ever seen before.

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. Well, he was going to deliver.

* * *

“Viktor,” his mother said one night, as the family relaxed on the couch on a Friday night, Makkachin lying down on the floor besides them. “Where do you think you’re going to apply for college?”

“Um,” Viktor said, sitting up. He was eighteen years old and close to graduating. He had sent in a few applications and hadn’t gotten them back yet. “I was actually thinking of continuing with skating.”

“And throw away your education?” his father said sternly. “Absolutely not.”

“I can make a living off of it!” Viktor protested. “Besides, college will always be there, but figure skating? I’m in my prime right now. I don’t have very long of a career, as I’ll probably have to retire around twenty-seven or twenty-eight. I can always go to school later.”

“Just finish college,” his mother pleaded with him. “Four years. Get a degree, have a backup plan….Take a break from skating, Vitya.”

Viktor set his jaw. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go to college. But only for four years.” 

His mother breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, _zvezda moya_. You’ll make us proud.”

That’s not what Viktor heard. He heard: _This is what we wanted for you._ He heard: _This is the path we chose for you_. He heard: _This is the only way you won't disappoint us._

Viktor sighed. “I’ve applied to a school in Saint Petersburg so I’ll see if that one accepts me.” He didn’t add, _It’s nearby a skating rink so I can practice as much as I can_ , because he didn’t think his parents would appreciate him still choosing skating over studying.

He stood up, fishing out his phone. “I’ll tell Yakov I’m taking a break from skating.”

His father nodded. “All right then. And thank you, Viktor.”

Viktor only nodded, before walking over to his phone, already calling Yakov.

“Viktor?” Yakov asked when he picked up. Viktor was able to clearly imagine his disapproving frown even on the phone. 

“Coach Yakov,” Viktor said, voice toneless. “I’m going to college after I graduate high school. I’m taking a break from skating for four years.”

“Are you sure?” Yakov asked. 

Viktor hesitated, not knowing what to say. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I want to compete as much as I can before I have to retire. But my parents…”

“Go to college,” Yakov said. “Finish your four years. You can always start to compete again when you’re twenty-one or twenty-two. You still have time.”

“I—okay,” Viktor conceded. “I’ll go. It’s only four more years, anyway.”

* * *

“You should talk to Mila,” Yakov told him one day. “You haven’t talked to her at all and you’re one of her idols.”

“One of her idols?” Viktor repeated and Yakov nodded. “The kid’s been dying to talk to you,” he said. “You should at least try and strike up a conversation.”

“I’m not good with kids!” Viktor protested. “Or people in that matter. She’s nine. How do I find something to talk about?”

Yakov shrugged. “Find a common interest between the two of you. I don’t want her falling because she’s too busy watching you perform a jump.”

* * *

“I have pink, blue, purple and red,” Mila said. The two were in her bedroom, a small room bathed in yellow light and full of stuffed animals. “Which would you like me to put on you?” She held up the bottles of nail polish, shaking them slightly. 

“I’ll take pink,” Viktor said with a smile, watching as Mila nodded and began to unscrew the cap. He had taken Yakov’s word of advice and had gone over to Mila house to paint each other’s nails. He briefly wondered what people would think if they saw them together, an eighteen and a nine year old, sitting cross-legged on the floor with nail polish.

“So,” Mila said as she began to paint his nails. “How’s it like going to compete?”

“It’s very thrilling,” Viktor replied. “Kind of scary, but you get to meet all sorts of people and travel around the world.”

“Wow,” Mila said, eyes wide. “I want to do that!”

Viktor smiled. “You want to become a professional figure skater?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” Mila said, moving to Viktor’s left hand. “I’m going to win the Grand Prix Final! I’ll be the top figure skater in the world!” She grinned at him. “I wish men and women could compete against each other. Then I could compete with you!”

“I wouldn’t like that,” Viktor said and Mila frowned.

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t like to be beaten so easily by you,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve seen you practice. You have a lot of potential.”

“Really?” Mila asked, lighting up. “I do?”

Viktor nodded, grabbing a bottle of blue nail polish to start painting Mila’s. His own polish hadn’t dried yet, but Mila was messy when she had applied it, with pink splashes all over his fingers, so he decided it wouldn’t make much of a difference. “You just have to keep practicing.”

Mila bit her lip, watching as Viktor painted her nails with ease. “I fall a lot,” she admitted. “More than I’d like to. You don’t look like you ever fall.”

Viktor laughed, and she blinked at that, looking up at him. “I fall too,” Viktor said. “More than I would like too.”

“But I don’t ever _see_ you fall,” Mila replied.

“I work hard,” Viktor said. “I practice every day. If you dedicate yourself to the ice, you won’t fall very often either. And it’s not bad to fall either,” Viktor added. “What other way will you learn? Just remember,” He finished painting her nails, smiling as she examined the near-perfect nails in awe. “You always get up again, right? And that’s all that really matters.”

> 2,294 likes
> 
> _A picture is posted of Viktor and Mila grinning at the camera, displaying their newly painted nails._
> 
> **v-nikiforov** hanging out with Mila today! This kid’s going to go far in the skating world
> 
> 2,037 comments

* * *

“So you’re quitting figure skating?” Artem asked one day, as the two hung out after school. 

“Not quitting,” Viktor corrected him. “I’m just stopping for a while.”

Artem nodded thoughtfully, lapsing into silence. Viktor’s crush on him over the years had faded into a dull burn at the pit of his stomach, still there but bearable.

“I’m going to be leaving Saint Petersburg,” Artem said suddenly. “Going to med school some time away.” He looked at Viktor. “We might not see each other that much anymore.”

Viktor nodded slowly. He suspected that much, but his only hope was that he and Artem would stay close. Artem was his one close friend and to lose him...the thought seemed unbearable.

So he nudged Artem with his elbow, fishing out his phone. “We have each other’s numbers, right?” he asked. “We can still keep in touch.” He shrugged. “I’m always going to be in Saint Petersburg.”

“You’re not going to forget about me, right?” Artem asked. “When you’re famous and rich and have a million friends around the world.” His tone was joking, but there was a tone of uncertainty that Viktor didn’t like.

“I’ll never forget about you,” Viktor replied easily, wondering if he said it out loud, it’d sound more like a promise.

* * *

College was...okay. 

Classes weren’t too bad, though he did pull more all-nighters than he had ever in his life, and caffeine became a thing he couldn’t live without. His roommate was fine, the people around him were fine, everything was fine and _so goddamn boring_.

Sometimes he managed to get out and go to the nearest figure skating rink, feeling a sigh of relief whenever he slid onto the ice, yet feeling trapped at the public rink, with too many people and no room to practice a jump.

It wasn’t until he was nineteen when he realized he was homesick, not for his bedroom or his parents, but for figure skating.

Even parties bored him, and he found himself wishing he was at a banquet filled with other skaters. He ended up drinking more at those parties than talking to anyone.

Viktor struggled through the next year of college. His grades plummeted, he felt apathetic towards _everything_ , and he couldn’t remember a time where he had felt so tired. He didn’t _drop out_ per se, but at twenty, he walked into the registrar’s office, withdrew from all his classes and resigned from the university. He had a month to get his shit together and leave the dorm rooms.

It would’ve been rough for most people, as he refused to get help from his parents or friends, but Viktor wasn’t most people. He had money, specifically money from figure skating, so he bought an apartment nearby his home rink. Before, in his parents’ apartment, he had to walk, then take the subway, then walk some more, but now he was right by it.

To say his parents were disappointed in him dropping out was an understatement.

When he finally told them over the phone, there had been yelling and arguing and crying and by the end Viktor was too exhausted to go on, so he choked out, “Sorry. Love you. Bye,” and hung up, letting his phone drop numbly from his hands.

“I fucked up, Makkachin,” he murmured, watching as the dog bounded up to him, sprawling out on his lap. “They’re so mad at me.” He scratched Makkachin behind his ears. “Should I have dropped out? Was that the right choice?”

“But,” Viktor continued, moving to stroke Makkachin’s head. “They always told me to follow my dreams, didn’t they? And my dream is to be back on the ice.”

Makkachin blinked up at him. “Maybe it wasn’t a popular choice,” Viktor said quietly to him, trying to avoid the shaking in his voice. “But maybe it was the right one.”

* * *

> 3,982 likes
> 
> _What looks like an impromptu selfie between Viktor and Yakov at the skating rink is posted._
> 
> **v-nikiforov** guess who’s back?
> 
> 3,423 comments

* * *

“I was thinking,” Viktor said to Yakov. “That maybe I could choreograph my own programs? I’ve done so in the past--none for competitions, though, but I think I could pull it off.”

Yakov thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think so as well,” he responded. “You’re certainly up to the task.”

Mila, who was working on her double toe-loop, glanced over at him. “You’re choreographing your own program?” she asked. “What, is it going to be about another one of your exes?”

Viktor swiveled around to look at her. “Exes? What exes?”

“Oops.” Mila covered her mouth. “That’s Georgi.” She laughed as Georgi’s mouth dropped open at that. “Glad you’re back, Viktor,” she said. “Now someone else can join in my suffering as he ‘laments’ about another ex-girlfriend.”

Viktor looked questioningly at Yakov. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

Yakov shook his head tiredly. “You’ve missed a lot in two years, Vitya.”

Viktor watched Mila perform a double toe loop perfectly for the first time, a grin wide on her face, him and Georgi cheering for her, Yakov giving her a rare smile, and thought, _I’m home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to give a huge thanks to everyone who's corrected me on figure skating. You have been so nice and I really appreciate it! And, of course, thank you so much to everyone who's commented and left kudos. All of you make my day! 
> 
> On another note, I'm participating in this auction that basically allows people to bid for fanworks and the money goes to charities. You can read more about it [here](http://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com/FAQ) and bid for me [here](https://fandomtrumpshateofferings.tumblr.com/post/155742070417/starlitdreamscapes-fth-contributor-page%22). It goes to a great cause and I'm willing to write pretty much anything (except for smut). Even better, no one's bid for me yet so it'll probably be pretty easy to win lol.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear im not dead

_Beautiful._

_Heart-wrenching._

_Stunning._

_Incredible._

_Groundbreaking._

These were the sort of words that floated around the crowd as Viktor finished with his free skate, a program he had choreographed himself, spending ages planning jumps and step-sequences, contacting people from over the world to help create his music. It was the one program he had skated to where he absorbed himself entirely in his story of his return to ice.

With a silver medal in hand, the skating king of Russia was back indeed.

The banquet after the Grand Prix Final was a whirlwind as usual, skaters dancing and talking and laughing, and he couldn’t help but flit around, flirting and chatting and reconnecting with others. He had forgotten how many of his friends were international and was thrilled to see so many of them make it to the Grand Prix Final.

“What are you planning next, Viktor?” a skater called out and Viktor shrugged, flashing a flippant smile.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he called back with a laugh and a wink. He fielded a few more questions (about his skating, about his programs, about his lovelife) before managing to get away from the crowd and slip out into the hall for some air. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. He had no idea, to be honest, what he was doing next. Everyone was expecting him to do something amazing but, heck, he was only twenty-one and still lost.

He sighed, turning to go back to the banquet when he caught sight of someone sitting on the ground, their head in their hands.

Viktor cautiously walked forwards towards them. “Hi,” he ventured. 

The person looked up to reveal a tear-streaked face. Viktor recognized him as a skater who had competed against him, earning last place. He winced, unsure what to do.

“Viktor Nikiforov,” the skater said, standing up and wiping his face. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, mentally kicking himself the moment he asked. Of course he wasn’t okay.

“I lost,” the skater said bitterly.

“Oh,” Viktor said dumbly, reaching into his pocket. “...Want a tissue?”

The skater glared at him, muttering, “Of course you wouldn’t understand,” and walking away.

Viktor sighed. He was no good with people, especially ones who were _crying_. Despite his charm and charisma, human emotions weren’t something he could grapple.

“That didn’t go too well, didn’t it?” a voice commented from behind him. Viktor turned to see an eighteen-year old skater. 

The skater raised his eyebrow, obviously expecting some sort of reaction from Viktor.

“Who are you?” Viktor asked, confused.

“I came in fourth,” the skater said, looking slightly disappointed. “Christophe Giacometti?”

“Ohhh,” Viktor said. “Christophe...Right…” He remembered him now. His skate was quite...intense. Viktor squinted at him. “I could’ve sworn I’ve known you from somewhere else,” he muttered, racking his brain. 

Chris waved a dismissive hand. “Not important,” he said. “Let’s get back to the party.”

“Sure,” Viktor said, following him back into the banquet room. “You’re from Switzerland, aren’t you?”

Chris nodded. “It’s my first time in the Grand Prix Final. The banquet can get a little...rowdy, can’t it?”

Viktor looked over to where a dance-off was held. “It could be worse,” he said airily. “At least no one’s drunk. This time. Gives a show, that’s for sure,” he offered.

Chris smiled. “Give me a pole andI’ll give you a show.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Man of many talents, huh?”

Chris’s smile turned into a grin. “You could say that.”

They spent a few minutes talking and it felt refreshing to chat with someone who didn’t place him too high on a pedestal, who recognized just how young he really was.

“Hit me up on Instagram,” Viktor said after they had exchanged phone numbers. “I hope to see you next year.”

“Oh, you will,” Chris promised. “But next time, _I’ll_ be the one with a medal.”

Viktor laughed at that, throwing Chris one of his award-winning smiles. “Not as long as I’m in the race,” he promised. “But I have no doubt you'll give a good run.”

* * *

The figure skating season hadn't started yet and Viktor was stuck staring at his reflection in the mirror, frowning slightly. He looked good, of _course_ he looked good, but his hair...He fingered it, running his fingers through the long strands. It was down to his waist by now and it looked, well, childish. A haircut was needed.

“Makkachin!” he called and Makkachin came bounding into his room. “I need a haircut,” he said, bending down to his knees to scratch Makkachin’s ears. “Want to come with me?” 

Makkachin barked excitedly and Viktor smiled, standing up. “Let’s go!” he sang, grabbing his keys and slipping on his jacket. Makkachin bounded out the door and Viktor followed.

The air was crisp and Viktor shivered slightly, looking down at Makkachin walking besides him. There was no need for a leash—Makkachin was faithful enough to follow Viktor everywhere.

He smiled at the people walking by them, greeting a few neighbors, watching as children ran up to pet Makkachin. He was just magnetic in that way.

He swung open the door to the barber shop. It was empty, save for one girl who jumped when he walked in. 

“Hello,” she said. “Dogs aren’t allowed…” she paused, softening at Makkachin. “But there aren’t any customers, so I guess you can stay.” She addressed that to Makkachin bending down to pet him.

“Thanks,” Viktor said with a smile.

“What can I do for you?” the girl asked and Viktor turned to face her.

“I need all this,” He gestured to his long hair. “Cut.”

* * *

Viktor walked out of the barbershop feeling ten pounds lighter. His hair was short and swept across his face and he _loved_ it. “This is perfect,” he said to Makkachin as he padded alongside of him. “It fits with the new routine I’m choreographing. Wait until my parents see—” He broke off, remembering very well that he wasn’t speaking to his parents anymore. “Well, maybe they’ll watch it on TV.”

He stared at a family walking on the opposite street. The daughter was being swung by her parents, holding hands with both of them, laughing. Her mother looked down at her affectionately, lips moving to form the words “ _Zvezda moya_ ”.

VIktor flinched, looking down at Makkachin, blissfully unaware of what he was feeling. He sighed, dropping down to pet Makkachin. “You know what that reminds me of?” he asked him, eyeing a bag the mother was carrying. “We need to go shopping.”

He walked into the little corner grocery store (feeling slightly guilty for leaving Makkachin outside, the instruction of “wait here” being the only thing stopping him from running off) and came back with a bag full of supplies he probably didn’t need, but when he walked into his apartment, he slammed the bag down on the counter, causing Makkachin to jump.

“I’m going to make something,” he declared. “I, Viktor Nikiforov, am going to _actually_ cook. I’m twenty-one. I can do this.”

Makkachin looked at him somewhat skeptically and padded away. Viktor ignored him and picked up a recipe book, flipping through the pages. “I’ll try and make blinis,” he decided, speaking out loud. He had begun to talk to himself a lot recently, one of the more obvious signs that a dog wasn’t the best company.

It was a moderately simple recipe to make blinis (Russian pancakes, as they were known), with ingredients such as eggs and milk and _yes he could do this he could be a fully functioning adult and make this one thing._

Mixing was easy. Well, he might have spilled. A little. And maybe his measurements were off. But it was edible (he hoped). When he had the batter ready, he set up a pan, melting butter on it before pouring a thin layer of batter.

After a _slightly_ burned thumb and a _slightly_ burned blini, he was starting to get the hang of it, ending up with a stack of thin pancakes, golden brown and hot.

“Makkachin!” he called delightedly and the dog bounded over to him. “I did it! I made something different!”

Makkachin barked, unable to understand a word he was saying, and settled for running around his legs.

He spread melted chocolate on it (dar,k of course) and tried it. It was good, buttery and sweet, but it wasn’t quite as good as his mother’s…

He sighed, watching Makkachin blankly. Maybe he _was_ too young to live on his own. Most people his age were in college, living with roommates and with parents, but he was alone. Then again, most people weren’t professional figure skaters.

His gaze drifted towards his phone, and he picked it up, hesitating for a moment before scrolling through his contacts, finger hovering over his parents home phone number. He stared at it for a minute, before setting his phone back down.

He was twenty-one. He was an adult. He didn’t need his parents.

* * *

His life fell into a routine, cycling through practicing his skating and walking Makkachin and scrolling through Instagram, catching up on what his friends were doing around the world. Boyfriends never seemed to stick around for very long because of both his commitment to the ice and the unease of the media always lurking wherever they went.

That was okay, though. 

When he confessed that he had broken up with _another_ boyfriend, twelve-year old Mila laughed, shaking her head.”I liked that one!” she said. “You can’t keep them around, huh?”

Viktor shrugged, leaning on the railing of the ice rink. “I get bored to easily,” he admitted. “I need someone who can surprise me!”

“You need to stop being so flighty,” Georgi noted.

Viktor rolled his eyes. “Since when were you an expert on love?” 

“Since I’ve been in a stable relationship,” Georgi replied.

Viktor blinked. “Since when?” he asked.

Mila sighed. “Do you pay attention to anything but yourself?” she asked jokingly, but there was some truth to those words. Viktor was someone with his head in the clouds.

“Anyway,” Georgi said. “I don’t know how long it’ll last, anyway, because I’m going to college. When I’m twenty-one,” he said, looking pointedly at Viktor. “I want to have four years of higher education.”

“So you’re not going to be skating?” Viktor asked.

Georgi shook his head. “I’ll visit though,” he said. “I’m still going to practice—the college I’m going to is in Saint Petersburg. It means you’ll have to hang out with _just Mila_ though.”

Mila crossed her arms. She hadn’t been listening to their conversation, being too young to even have to worry about college, but had tuned in once she was mentioned. “Viktor loves me! Right, Viktor?”

Viktor laughed. “Right,” he agreed. “Come on, though. We really should start practicing before Yakov comes.”

Mila bounced up, red hair flashing behind her. “Right! Yakov’s _terrifying_ when he’s mad.”

Viktor disagreed with her, but, then again, he was probably desensitized to his rage anyway.

* * *

After an hour or so of practicing, Viktor walked out into the streets, walking into the coffee shop near his apartment. He was tired from skating and caffeine was a must.

“The usual?” the barista asked him and he nodded with a smile. He had gone here long enough to become a regular.

Coffee in hand, he slid into a seat, taking a sip before fishing out a notebook and scribbling some notes in it. He still had to finish up choreographing his free skate and could waste no time, with the skating season coming up.

“Hey.” Viktor looked up as an (attractive) man slid into the seat next to him, a sideways smile on his face.

“Hey,” Viktor said. “Need anything?”

“Just a name,” the man replied. “I’m Alek.” He extended a hand and Viktor shook it

“Viktor,” he replied, matching his smile. He knew where this was headed, could feel a crush coming on, but thought _fuck it_ and decided not the think of all his other failed relationships.

“I always see you around here,” Alek said. “And I thought I’d get to know you more. Am I interrupting something?”

Viktor glanced down at his unfinished notes and took a risk. “No,” he said. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this new crush isn't going to last...hes no yuuri that's for sure (also i suck at names yikes). Chris is a really hard character to write, but he's going to appear more often when they're both a bit older.


	8. Chapter 8

The next year came with good things. A new friend in Alek and new routines that captured and surprised and shocked the audience. He held a World Championships gold medal now and things were looking brighter. He didn’t need his parents or his coach or _anyone_. He had a gold medal in hand and fans across the world and he felt he could do anything. 

“Viktor!” Yakov called to him one morning, a year after his win. 

“Mmhmm?” Viktor slipped his phone in his pocket (he had been checking Instagram) and looked up. 

“I have a new student today,” he said. “Eleven years old, came here from Moscow.”

“Is he good?” Viktor asked.

“Of course he’s good,” Yakov replied. “He has a bright future, that one. I was wondering if you could talk to him and warm up to him. I need to look over Mila’s routine.”

“Sure,” Viktor said. 

“He looks up to you,” Yakov said. “A lot of people do nowadays. The best you could do is give him some recognition.”

Viktor blinked. “Of course,” he said. There was a pause, before he spoke again. “And his name?”

“Yuri Plisetsky.”

* * *

That afternoon, Viktor watched as a little boy walked nervously in, holding his grandfather’s hand tightly. “You’ll do fine, Yurochka,” his grandfather said reassuringly and the boy looked away.

So that was him, then. Yuri Plisetsky.

Viktor walked forward, flashing a smile on his face. “Hello,” he greeted them. “I’m Viktor Nikiforov.” He dropped down so he was eye-to-eye with Yuri. “And you must be Yuri! We’re so happy to have you as a rinkmate.”

Yuri stared wide-eyed at Viktor for a moment, before looking back at his grandfather.

His grandfather nodded slightly before turning to Viktor. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Viktor smiled once more, waving as the grandfather left. Then, to Yuri, he asked, “You already have skates?”

Yuri nodded, silently taking out his skates and lacing them on. Viktor took a moment to take in his appearance as he fumbled with the laces. Yuri was practically swimming in his tiger sweatshirt and his blonde hair was long and messy. 

“All set?” Viktor asked him gently when he was done. “I love your skates.” _Wow_ , he didn’t know how to talk to children.

“Knife shoes,” Yuri corrected. 

“O-kay,” Viktor conceded, taking Yuri’s hand (ignoring how he snatched it away almost immediately) and leading him to the skating rink. They both entered the rink easily and Viktor noted how confident Yuri was already on the ice, more so than when he was eleven.

“You’re very good already,” Viktor said and Yuri nodded.

“I’ve seen you on T.V,” he said. “You won the World Championships.”

“I did,” he said. “And I have no doubt you will too, when you’re older.”

“I will,” Yuri agreed. He looked at Viktor with none of that wide-eyed wonder that Mila had when she was younger, and Viktor had the feeling that while Yuri looked up to him, he certainly didn’t _idolize_ him. That was interesting.

“Yakov will be back soon,” Viktor said, hating how he couldn’t make small talk with even a child. “What are you planning on learning?”

“Jumps,” Yuri said. “I want to learn how to do quads.”

Viktor laughed. “Not for a long time,” he said. “Those are hard to master and take a long time.”

“You do them,” Yuri pointed out.

“And I’m twenty-two,” Viktor said. “Like I said, it takes a long time. Even I, a World Championships winner, had trouble with them.” 

“I’m going to become the best figure skater,” Yuri said stubbornly. “Better than _you_ , one day,” he added, and Viktor couldn’t help but think that’d come true.

* * *

“I need to go to practice,” Viktor said into his phone, glancing outside. It was around 8:00 and he liked to head down to the skating rink at night. “As much as I’d love to go to a party with a bunch of people I don’t know, I wouldn’t.” That was a sort of lie. He liked going to parties, regardless of who was there, but _figure skating_.

“Come on,” Alek said. “You always go to practice. Take a night off. It’ll be fun.”

Viktor chewed his lip, knowing very well he wasn’t going to deny Alek of anything. This wasn’t his first crush, not by far. Who was it last, that skater at the last Grand Prix? That boy in college? However many was it, this crush was going to end up the same.

Which was why he found himself standing in front of an unfamiliar house minutes later.

“You made it,” Alek said. He was leaning against the wall of the house, presumably waiting for Viktor.

Viktor gave a half-shrug. “Decided to take some time off,” he said offhandedly, walking up to him. He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Were you waiting for me out here?”

“No,” Alek said, ducking his head and walking inside. _Huh_ , VIktor thought, ignoring how his stomach flipped at that.

It was loud when he walked in, the smell of alcohol hitting him in the face. There was a mass of people and it seemed almost a reflex to throw a wink at whoever looked at him.

He should probably tone down his flirting, he thought dimly, especially since he had a crush on Alek and he was gay while 90% of these guys were not (not to mention the girls he was no doubt leading on).

“You don’t know anyone here...right?” Alek asked him when Viktor had stopped befriending everyone in the room.

“Nope,” Viktor said, only slightly tipsy, a buzz in the back of his mind making him bounce on his heels and stripping off any filter he had. “I like talking to people.”

Alek stifled a laugh, annoyingly sober. “I think you made half the room fall for you.”

“Only half?” Viktor said jokingly.

Alek shook his head, a crooked smile on his face. “I told you you’d have fun. You should trust me.”

“I should,” Viktor said, but for some reason, those words tasted like poison in his mouth.

* * *

“I don’t like Alek,” Yakov said simply as Viktor ran late to practice again. “He’s a bad influence on you.”

“Lighten up,” Viktor scoffed. “He’s fine. I’m still doing fine. A few missed practices won’t cost me anything.”

Yakov didn’t say anything, but Viktor could tell he was annoyed, or, even worse, disappointed. “I know he’s not that great a guy,” Viktor continued, as if that’d help anything. “But he’s my _friend_. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Yakov simply raised an eyebrow and turned away. Evidently not.

Viktor sighed. Mila, overhearing the conversation, skated up to him. “Who’s Alek?” she asked curiously.

“He’s my friend,” Viktor said, an automatic smile appearing on his face. “Yakov doesn’t like him. He thinks it’s because of him that I miss practices.”

“And it is,” Mila pointed out and Viktor shrugged.

“Maybe it is,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I want to admit it to Yakov.”

“I’ve seen him around,” Mila mused. “He’s the guy who sometimes picks you up, right?”

Viktor nodded and Mila frowned. “I don’t like him,” she said plainly.

“You too?” Viktor asked.

“He’s got that vibe to him,” Mila said. “Like...you know. He’s no good.”

Viktor opened his mouth to argue, then realized that he shouldn’t take advice from a fourteen year old girl and closed it again. “He’s my friend,” he repeated. “He’s fine.”

Mila looked at him skeptically, but shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “I’m just saying, it must _suck_ having a crush on him.”

It took Viktor a whole thirty minutes to realize he had never told her about his crush.

* * *

The next few months came with good things. Primarily, a new boyfriend in Alek (and Viktor was still getting over that one). It was Viktor’s first long relationship and he felt ridiculously happy around Alek. They were young, in love, and it seemed as though the world revolved around them.

“We’re in a magazine,” Alek said excitedly one day, waving an issue around.

Viktor hardly looked up from where he was polishing his skates. “Pure gossip,” he replied airily. “They don’t really matter. Whatever it says, I can clear it all up in the next interview.”

“I forgot you were famous,” Alek said, flipping through it. When he landed on the article, he read it aloud, “ _Figure Skater Viktor Nikiforov spotted with what looks like a new boyfriend…_ ” He laughed a little. “They sound a little jealous of me.”

“What can I say?” Viktor said with a shrug. “I guess I’m just irresistible.” 

“Uh-huh,” Alek said, hardly paying attention. “But am I going to be famous because of this?” “If you call _that_ famous, then sure,” Viktor said. He didn’t see why Alek cared so much about the spotlight anyway. Either way, whenever he saw the glimpse of a reporter, he’d steer Alek away and avoid all questions about his love life.

* * *

“Yakov says I need to start taking life more seriously,” Viktor said, the two of them splayed out on his couch. “That I need to stop going with what you say.’

“Like he understands what fun is,” Alek scoffed. “Just ignore him. It’s not like he can tell you what to do.”

“I don’t normally do what he says in the first place,” Viktor muttered. “But.” He sighed. “I should listen to him. He knows what’s good for me more than anyone here.” Viktor glanced at his watch. It was later at night than he thought, but skating in the evening was always nice. “I should go and practice. I need to win a gold." 

“Forget practice,” Alek said easily. “Our friends invited us out tonight for drinks. We should go.”

Viktor bit his lip, thinking about how they weren’t really _his_ friends, but rather Alek’s, and how he really should practice, and how taking breaks were nice, but now this was just pure procrastination, and how he never really got a say in these things anyway.

“Okay,” Viktor said, standing up. “Let’s go then.”

Alek’s smile was almost worth it.

* * *

The next few months passed smoothly. The media seemed to be relentless and Viktor avoided them as best he could, ducking out of their grasp, slipping out of questions with a charming smile, answering with a flippant rhetorical question rather than a true one. Alek, however, seemed to thrive in the attention, and it wasn’t long before Viktor would see information about himself printed and posted in places he didn’t know about.

He began wandering the city of Saint Petersburg with Makkachin at his side, discovering places and restaurants he hadn’t seen before. It felt good to have money now, and not have to rely on his parents’ bank account.

His parents.

Viktor still hadn’t talked to them. They had left a voice message once, asking him about what was happening, begging him for information other than shady articles and pictures Mila would post on her Instagram. He listened to that voice message, once, twice, three times, that pit of anger still in his stomach, unsure what to do.

(Alek had fixed that, by snatching his phone from out of his hands and deleting the message, promising that he didn’t need to worry about that, that he no longer needed his mother and father).

On a more positive note, Yuri was doing well under Yakov’s teaching. He seemed to glow on the ice and, unsurprisingly, was an incredibly fast learner. 

“Slow down,” Yakov would snap at him. “You’re going to hurt yourself by trying to do things way too advanced.”

“Keep going,” Viktor would whisper, with a secretive little smile and a wink, on the few times he'd talk to the eleven year old. “If you’re anything like me, you’ll be ahead of the game before you know it.”

Later, Yakov would scold him for pushing Yuri and for missing yet another practice. Viktor would shrug, not paying too much attention, because, hey, Alek would text him, and he’d get annoyed if Viktor didn’t text back, anyway.

Viktor also started noticing that he stopped seeing Alek _quite_ as much. He became more closed off and stopped greeting him after every practice. He didn’t think too much of it, though and didn’t bother to confront it. He wanted to cling onto this relationship so badly and make it last. It seemed as though Alek was his one constant besides his rinkmates. Who else could he trust?

(And for every argument they had, Alek would convince him it was his fault. And it was, wasn’t it? It’s not like he knew how people worked. It’s not like anyone ever chose to stay with him.)

(See, this is why Viktor needed Alek.)

“I’m going to skip out tonight,” Viktor announced one night, knowing very well that today was the day Alek and his friends went out, usually to a bar, sometimes to a party. “I want to go down to the rink. I’ll be back at…” He glanced at the clock. _8:00_. “Ten?” The thought of two hours skating seemed torturous, but he _needed_ to get his head in game.

“Have some fun, Viktor,” Alek said. “Lighten up.” 

“It’s just once,” Viktor said with a twinge of annoyance. “And while all that’s fun, I also love figure skating. I’m a professional figure skater, or did you forget that?”

“You always work,” Alek pointed out. “Practically married to the skating rink. I never see you anymore.”

“I never see you,” Viktor repeated. “It’s not me who’s been acting more distant. Who rarely talks to me anymore. Who only uses me to get on the covers of magazines. But,” He rose to grab his notebook, running through a list of notes. “You don’t see me bringing it up.”

“Viktor--” Alek started, voice rising.

“I should probably contact that musician,” Viktor mused. “See how my music’s coming along.”

“Viktor,” Alek snapped again.

“I should also add a quad flip,” Viktor said thoughtfully, not bothering to look up at Alek. “It’s becoming my signature move.”

“Viktor!” 

Viktor snapped his notebook shut and looked up at Alek. “Yes?” he asked, knowing perfectly well that he was being petty and passive-aggressive as opposed to Alek’s short temper.

“I’m going out anyway,” he said, stormy expression still on his face. “I hope you have fun.” He spat the last words, whirling out of the apartment and slamming the door.

“Love you too,” Viktor muttered, throwing on his coat. Lately, every conversation with Alek had left him feeling drained. He sighed. Maybe this relationship was deteriorating faster than Viktor had thought.

Makkachin immediately padded over from the other room and Viktor smiled sitting down and petting him. “Want to come with me?” he asked and Makkachin barked in response. “Okay, let’s go.”

The air had a bit of a chill, but it was warmer than he thought. He and Makkachin walked side by side to the skating rink, which was, thankfully, empty.

It felt like a breath of fresh air to skate alone, his movements fluid and dancelike. The corners of his lips twitched upwards. 

_"The ice gives a certain beauty, a certain grace that comes to the people on it. It transforms us, turning us into something so much greater than we are. Sometimes I think this is where we should be. Where we truly belong.”_

His mother had said that, so long ago, and Viktor wondered what she’d think of him now. He was changed, because of this ice, and he hoped it was for the better. 

He let a breath out, relaxing and closing his eyes, letting all thoughts of gold medals, Alek, and his parents fade from mind. The quad flip was perfect and he landed back on the ice, a smile blossoming on his face, thinking about that time so long ago when he was scared of skating.

He had most certainly changed.

* * *

It was 9:30 when Viktor finally realized just how tired he was and the thought of staying out for another thirty minutes made him want to cry. He nudged Makkachin awake who was dozing near the skating rink and they made their way back to his apartment.

“I wonder if Alek’s still there,” he murmured aloud to Makkachin. Alek had started staying over at his house more often, and vice versa, and the two were discussing sometime, in the future, of moving in together. It was moving fast, but, then again, when had Viktor ever slowed down?

Viktor quietly unlocked the door, Makkachin silently slipping in to resume his nap. “Alek?” he called once. 

He was about to throw on the lights to the living room when he stopped, tilting his head as he strained to hear something in the bedroom. There was most definitely someone there, but Alek hadn’t responded, so who could be there, if only Alek had the key…

His stomach dropped. _Oh, god, please no._

The sudden absences, the secretive text messages, that feeling in the back of his mind that he was missing something....

He quietly walked towards the bedroom, that sick feeling still in the pit of his stomach. The door was opened slightly and he looked in quickly before jerking back, pressing his back against the wall to ground himself. He wanted to throw up.

Alek was there. With someone else. Who, Viktor didn’t know. _How long?_ he thought. _How long have I been played?_

He took a breath in, letting it out slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as thought that’d erase what he’d seen. 

His eyes snapped open.

He was Viktor Nikiforov. He wasn’t broken so easily.

Viktor walked into the room, clearing his throat loudly. Alek jumped, breaking away from the stranger, looking at Viktor with the expression of a caged animal. The man who he was with had an equal expression of shock, but he didn’t seem too surprised that Alek had a boyfriend, meaning he knew very well what he was doing.

“I’m upset, Alek,” Viktor said, examining his nails. “Why didn’t you invite me?”

“Viktor,” Alek said. “I can explain.”

“You should go now,” Viktor said with a smile, picking his shirt up from the ground and tossing it to Alek. “Before _I_ explain to the media why exactly Viktor Nikiforov, Russia’s top figure skater, broke up with his boyfriend.”

Alek opened his mouth to say more, probably to worm his way out of a situation yet again, no doubt looking for sympathy.

Viktor’s eyes hardened. “I _suggest_ ,” he said in a clipped tone. “You go.”

Alek nodded sharply once. He walked out of the room, head held high, the other man following him. He had the decency to flash him a sympathetic smile. Viktor didn’t bother to smile back.

The moment he heard the door shut, his facade broke away and he sank to the floor, tears dripping down his face.

_A figure skater’s heart is fragile,”_ his mother had told him _. “It’s spun like glass, easily shattered by the smallest of things. Or perhaps ice would be a better term for it. Easy to thaw, easy to break.”_

If that’s how hearts were made, then his was splintered in pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The start of Viktor's downwards spiral!
> 
> I swear i didn't mean to update so late. this chapter was pretty hard to write and im not to happy with it. also im pretty sure i got yurio's backstory wrong? but idc, since this is viktor's story


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of depression (and really really brief mention of suicidal thoughts/self harm)

Viktor withdrew into himself after the breakup. He’d flash empty smiles at cameras and give false reassurances to Yakov. And, on the outside, he seemed fine. He seemed himself. He seemed _happy_.

Viktor was always a good actor.

Inside, he felt nothing but emptiness.

Alek was the snapping point of his already crumbling mental state, and when he lost _him_ , everything broke. He was alone and worthless, and what other than figure skating was he _for_?

He hardly called any of the numbers on his phone. Swiping through his contacts, he ignored his parents' phone numbers, didn't look twice at Georgi's or Mila's and deleted a contact that held the name of "Artem". His Instagram account slowly died as he posted less and less, and now there was nothing but the occasional picture of Makkachin (who, he felt, was the one constant in his life). His international friends were starting to worry, but he’d brush them off, saying he was busy.

The skating rink had become his life force. It was the one reason he was still here, after all. While he fell less and less on the ice, a perfectly performed quad never felt like a victory. Nothing really did.

“Viktor, you look like death,” Mila, fourteen now, commented one day at the rink.

“Mmm,” Viktor said.

“Have you been sleeping?” she continued. “Yuri’s starting to wonder if you don’t like him anymore—you never even _look_ at any of us, much less try to talk.”

“Uh-huh,” Viktor said, not in the mood to start an argument.

“I mean, you should take a break at least. You look bad. Like, _really_ bad. Maybe if you—”

“Mila!” Viktor snapped and Mila’s eyes widened because he _never_ snapped. “I’m _fine_.”

Mila nodded, looking even more worried now, but she didn’t bring it up again.

There seemed to be this forever feeling of _tiredness_ and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t sleep. His body was simply functioning but not feeling, living just because he felt he had to.

“I want this to end,” Viktor murmured to Makkachin and they laid together on the couch. How pathetic was he getting, that the one thing he confided in was a _dog_. “What _happened_ to me?” He glanced down at his shaking hands, then closed his eyes, leaning against the couch. “I used to be _good_.”

Makkachin just blinked and Viktor sighed. Tomorrow was another day.

He picked up a blade more often than he liked to admit, hands shaking every time. He had never used it, but would stare at it, turning it in his hands, and think _but what if…_

He was slipping, Viktor could feel it. He didn’t fall often, but when he did, he fell hard and fast, finger scrabbling for a way out but never succeeding, falling, falling, falling

* * *

“Viktor, that performance was excellent,” Yakov said, pleased as Viktor finished second at the Rostelecom Cup. “You’ll win the Grand Prix Final, no doubt.”

Viktor nodded listlessly. 

Yakov frowned, opening his mouth to no doubt ask him if he were okay, _again_.

“I’m fine,” Viktor said, before he could speak. “If that’s what you were going to ask.”

“I don’t believe you,” Yakov said harshly. “You’ve been ‘fine’ for months. I’m starting to think you’re—”

Viktor brushed past him, walking away and Yakov sighed in defeat, following after him.

They were met with reporters shortly after. The questions that came after each skate were always the worst.

“I think I have a good chance at winning the Grand Prix, yes,” Viktor said, nodding to one reporter. He usually was confident with these sorts of questions, but his skating had been unreliable lately (as unreliable as his moods) and he didn’t trust himself to confirm a win then wind up in last place. “Another win is definitely a goal of mine.” He continued to field questions, answering all with a stiff smile. The reporters were relentless and when they started to pry into his personal life, Viktor caught Yakov’s eye, who quickly interrupted and steered Viktor away. 

“That’s enough questions,” he said firmly. “Viktor, I wanted to talk to you about your routine…”

They walked away and Viktor managed a small, rare, genuine smile for Yakov.

* * *

“I did it!” Yuri said giddily. “I did a triple toe loop! Perfectly!” He looked towards Viktor. “Did you see?” 

“It _was_ perfect,” Viktor agreed. “How long have you been working on that?” Yuri, Viktor found out, hated when people called him a natural. He worked hard for things, he told Viktor, and wanted to be appreciated for that, rather than have his struggles being written off as talent.

“Too long,” Yuri said, still smiling down at the ice. “I’m going to win the next competition,” he added confidently. “Those other figure skaters have _nothing_ on me.”

“I’m sure they don’t,” Viktor reassured him, smiling, and Yuri practically beamed. Yuri had started to warm up to Viktor, but he was still a quiet kid, and to seem him bursting with smiles was a rare thing. He was eager for validation, constantly looking towards Yakov for his word. He and Mila had grown to have an almost sibling relationship (though he wasn’t quite as fond of Georgi, who had returned from college) and Viktor was glad to see Yuri start to fit in at the rink.

(He knew that Yuri didn’t have quite as strong of a relationship with himself. He was distant with Yuri—or, well everyone—and Yuri still saw Viktor as the persona he displayed to the media.)

“Are you okay?” Yuri asked Viktor unexpectedly, squinting at him.

Viktor gave a start. “What makes you ask that?”

Yuri shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “You just seem kind of...off?”

“I’m fine,” Viktor said, brushing him off. “I’m just tired. There’s nothing to worry about,” he added, because Yuri, who had offhandedly mentioned something about being the main provider of his family, didn’t need any more weight added to his small shoulders.

* * *

There was a banquet going on, somewhere. He was expected to go, the winner of the Grand Prix Final, expected to smile and laugh and make small talk and, well. Viktor would _really rather not_.

He stared down at the gold medal in his hand and glared at it. It shone mockingly in the half-light of his hotel room. His performance had been the best one yet, people told him. They didn’t know about his panic attack beforehand, or how his limbs were still shaking, or how when he was skating, he didn’t _feel_ anything.

His fingers tightened around the gold medal and he flung it against the wall where it connected with a satisfying crack before clattering to the ground. 

He stood there for a moment, eyes watching the wall blankly, before he was startled out of his thoughts by a sharp knock on the door. Sweeping his hair back to look somewhat presentable, he opened the door to see Chris standing there.

Viktor blinked. “Hello, Chris,” he said, somewhat warily. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the banquet?”

f“Aren’t _you_?” Chris replied. 

“I was tired. I thought I’d turn in for the night,” Viktor responded. It wasn’t a total lie. He was exhausted most of the time, and sleep didn’t seem to help at all.

Chris looked at him skeptically. “Never thought you were the type to turn down a party,” he mused. “Or free alcohol, for that matter.”

Viktor smiled tightly. “Chris, not to be rude, but what exactly are you doing here?”

“You’re the gold medalist,” Chris said. “Last year you wouldn’t shut up about it. What happened this year?”

“I—” Viktor started, then broke off. The thought of burdening Chris with all of his superficial problems made him bite his tongue and he shook his head. “Stress,” he said. “It happens to all of us.”

Chris frowned, obviously not buying his excuse. He looked past Viktor to see the gold medal lying on the ground and looked back at Viktor. “I brought champagne,” he said, waving a bottle in his hand. “I thought we could celebrate your win together in your room.”

Viktor softened. “You know me,” he said. “I can’t turn down free alcohol.”

That night was probably the best night Viktor had had in forever. The two of them stayed up late talking and laughing and drinking and with the help of alcohol and easy conversation, he could feel his worries start to drift away. They eventually crashed around twelve on Viktor's bed, a heap of sprawling limbs, too exhausted to go on.

* * *

Viktor woke up to the harsh light of day and he squeezed his eyes shut, wondering why the heck he didn’t think to close the curtains. His head was pounding and he buried his face in his pillow.

“Remind me never to drink again,” he mumbled.

Chris shifted from beside him, sitting up. He frowned, looking down at the two of them in one bed. “Did we sleep together?” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “I can’t remember a thing.”

“I don’t think so?” Viktor guessed. He wouldn’t be surprised if they did, knowing both of their, ah, _promiscuous_ personalities. “We both have clothes on.”

“Nice not to have another regret on my list,” Chris muttered. 

“You _know_ I wouldn’t be a regret,” Viktor shot back, and probably would have tried to say it much more flirtatiously if he hadn’t felt like his head was going to crack open. After another minute of attempted sleep, he eventually pushed himself out of bed. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Chris replied, following him to the small kitchen in the hotel room.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting down at the table with steaming coffee mugs in front of them.

“That’s a bit better,” Viktor said, taking an ibuprofen pill and washing it down with coffee. “I ordered breakfast so that should come soon.”

“Perfect,” Chris said, sipping his coffee. “Well. That was a fun night.”

“You didn’t have to come up here,” Viktor said quickly. “You could have stayed at the banquet.”

Chris waved a hand dismissively. “It’s only exciting when you’re there,” he answered. “I can’t imagine even competing without you.”

“And I can’t imagine you winning competing against me,” Viktor countered, his lips quirking upwards in a smile.

Chris opened his mouth to rebuke Viktor, but broke off at the sound of knocking at the door. “Is that room service?”

“I’ll get it,” Viktor said, rising up from his chair and opening the door. A woman stood there with covered plates of food. “Thank you,” Viktor said graciously, taking them. 

“You’re welcome, Mr. Nikiforov,” she replied with a smile. Her eyes caught on Chris in the background, both of them together in the early morning and her eyes widened and Viktor shut the door quickly.

“New headline,” he said dryly. “Viktor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti found sleeping together after the Grand Prix Final.”

“I think half of our fans already suspect that anyway,” Chris said airily. “We deal with gossip all the time, anyway.”

“Unfortunately,” Viktor muttered and Chris looked over at him. Viktor could tell what he was thinking: He had never cared about the media before, so what changed?

After they ate, Chris stood up. “I should get going,” he said. “It was nice to talk to you again. You’ve been...absent on social media. And haven’t been picking up my calls.”

“I’m busy,” Viktor said simply.

“Right,” Chris said, clearly not believing him. He clasped Viktor’s shoulder. “You should talk to someone,” he advised. “It’ll help.”

“I’ll--” Viktor found the words stuck in his throat. “I’ll think about it. Thanks, Chris.”

“Anytime,” Chris said, heading out. At the door, he paused and looked back at Viktor. “I’ll see you again at the Worlds.”

Viktor smiled, raising a hand in farewell. “I’ll see you at the Worlds.” 

* * *

Unlocking the front door and seeing Makkachin was probably the highlight of Viktor’s day. He was exhausted from the flight back home to Russia and to hug Makkachin’s soft fur was a blessing.

“You missed me, huh?” Viktor said, laughing as Makkachin lapped his cheek. “Well, I missed you too.”

He hung up his jacket, looking around at his rather desolate apartment. He should get a houseplant, maybe, to brighten things up. But of course, knowing his forgetfulness, he wouldn’t be surprised if he killed it in a week.

His phone rang and he sighed, picking it up without glancing at the contact number. He really didn’t want to talk after just arriving home.

“Viktor?” Viktor’s breathing stuttered when he recognized the voice. “Is that you?”

“Mama,” he whispered, feeling like a child, not a twenty-three year old adult.

“ _Solnyshko_ , Viktor, my son…” His mother seemed to be on the verge of tears. “You never call, you never pick up…”

“I’m sorry, I just…” Viktor closed his eyes, not wanting to tell her this phone call was a mistake. “Did you watch the Grand Prix Final?” he asked instead.

“We see all of your performances,” his mother said softly. “Oh, Vitya, we’re so proud of you. We never wanted to you to leave, _zvezda moya_ , and you’re doing so well on your own but we’ve missed you so _so_ much.” Her words ended up choked and Viktor felt a pit of guilt in his stomach for leaving his parents like this.

“I’m sorry too,” he said quietly, eyes tearing up. “I’m--I’m just--I’m just so _tired_.”

“Tell me everything,” his mother said and her voice was warm and comforting and soft and Viktor wanted to cry because he felt ten again, curled up around his mother as she read fairy tales out loud to him before he went to bed.

And he talked. And he talked and he talked and he talked until his throat was sore and until his head was spinning from crying and his frame was shaking. He had never felt so raw as he did now but his mother’s voice was constant as she told him she and his father were coming over tomorrow and that they were going to help him and his fingers clutched the phone like a lifeline because for the first time in what felt like ever, he had a concrete promise to hold onto.

* * *

After a few months of therapy, the sun seemed a bit brighter. He smiled a bit more. He started to enjoy skating once more. He talked and went out often and winning the Worlds Championship no longer seemed impossible.

He wasn’t great, but that...that was okay. As he snapped a selfie with Mila, Yuri, Georgi, and a glowering Yakov in the background, he thought, with one of his trademarked grins flashing up at the camera, that they haven’t broken him yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus and the not-so-well written chapter. Hopefully once my other multi-chap fic finishes, I can focus more on this one. 
> 
> About Yurio's little section here, I don't exactly know what jumps to have him able to do because I don't want to make it unrealistic but on the other hand he does a quad when he's twelve so...??? Then again, this isn't a yurio-centric fic, so I'm trying not to worry about it too much.


	10. Chapter 10

The music had just arrived for his free skate and now Viktor was stuck with the task of cleaning up his choreography. _It would certainly be easier to have Yakov do it_ , he thought wryly, but, no, he wanted to do this himself, no matter how late it was. 

He worked himself until midnight, which was when he dozed off for thirty minutes, before snapping awake and continuing to work. Choreographing could take him anywhere from an hour to a few months, and this was going particularly roughly as he mapped it out in his head, thinking over the jumps and the spins and the steps. He needed something _new_. He needed something _exciting._ He needed something that surprised the audience at every moment. He needed...some fucking inspiration.

At 6:00, his phone rang. He jumped and fumbled to get it, nearly knocking over a cold cup of coffee.

“Hello?” he said sleepily.

“Happy Birthday, Viktor!” Viktor blinked at the sound of both of his parents’ voices, then realized: _Oh, wait, it’s my birthday. I’m twenty-five today._

“Thanks,” he said, rubbing his eyes, wincing at how hoarse he sounded. 

“You sound exhausted,” his father noted. “Have you been getting enough sleep?” He sounded accusatory and rightly so. Viktor preferred to work rather than sleep. Sleep was overrated, anyway.

“Did you just wake up?” his mother asked. “We’re sorry if you woke you. It _is_ rather early.”

“On the contrary,” Viktor replied. “I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

There was a silence, before his mother admonished, “Viktor! You need to sleep!”

“I will, I promise,” Viktor said hurriedly. “I just need to finish this.”

He could practically hear his father’s disapproving stare. “You should get some rest,” he advised. “You’ll think clearer after you sleep.”

“I know, I know,” Viktor said. “I’ve been pulling all-nighters since college. I know how much I can take before I pass out.”

“That’s...not healthy,” his mother commented. She sighed. “Anyway. Have you gotten our present yet?”

“A present?” Viktor closed his eyes, trying to remember. He ended up with a headache. _I really need to sleep._ “Um...yeah. It arrived yesterday. I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Well? Open it!” his mother said, sounding more eager than Viktor.

Viktor pushed himself off his chair, standing up and downing his coffee. “Okay, okay. One sec.”

He took his phone, still talking to his parents, over to the living room where he had haphazardly thrown aside the package. Makkachin came padding towards him, wanting to see what he was up to, and in doing so, knocked over one of Viktor’s teetering stacks of books.

He really was a mess right now.

When Viktor finally opened the package, his mouth dropped open. “You got me gold skates?”

“You said your old ones were wearing down,” his father said, sounding proud to remember such a fact. “We thought it was about time you replaced them.”

“Wow,” Viktor said. “Thanks. I should try them out.”

“Or you could sleep first,” his mother suggested.

“Or that,” Viktor agreed. He stood up, stretching and hearing his joints pop. “Thanks for the gift. I could really use gold skates. It’ll match my next medal.”

“You’re next medal?” his father repeated.

Viktor grinned. “With four gold medals from the World Championships in a row,” he said. “How hard can a fifth be?”

* * *

“Yuri, I can’t wait to see you skate in a competition!” Mila said excitedly as they were practicing at their home rink. “It’s only in a few hours, isn’t it?” 

Yuri nodded. “I’ll bring home another gold medal,” he said confidently.

“Not with _that_ big of a head,” Mila scoffed, whacking him on the head lightly. “Show some modesty.”

Yuri just shrugged, uncaring. “Whatever,” he muttered.

“That’s today?” Viktor furrowed his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize. I must have forgotten.” He didn’t notice Yuri’s stormy look at that. 

Mila did, however, and she ruffled Yuri's hair and Yuri batted her hand away. Mila grinned at him fondly before turning to Viktor. “Are you still working on choreographing your free skate?” she asked.

Viktor nodded. “I’m almost done, though,” he said. “Hard work, but, it pays off.” He shot her a smile. “Besides,” he added. “I do think my pieces are better than Yakov’s.”

“You choreograph your own pieces?” Yuri asked him. 

“Everything I perform is something I made,” Viktor replied. “And as ‘Russia’s top skater’, I’d say that it paid off.” He pushed off from the railing and skated off on his gold skates, not realizing Yuri was watching him contemplatively. 

* * *

So far, Yuri’s skate was going well. Mila, Georgi, and Viktor watched from the audience as he perfected jump after jump.

“Yuri pushes himself too hard,” Georgi said, watching as yet another jump was done flawlessly. “Some day it’s going to backfire.”

“He’s fine,” Viktor said dismissively. Truth be told, Yuri reminded him of himself sometimes (save for their polar opposite personalities). Yuri had that ambitious streak that Viktor always had and that Yakov always hated.

“Anyway,” Viktor continued. “It’s not like he’s trying qua--”

“A quad salchow!” Mila gasped, standing up to see Yuri. “He landed a quad! At twelve! He could’ve hurt himself!”

“No way,” Georgi whispered. “Even _Viktor_ didn’t attempt to do that.”

Murmurs spread through the crowd, whispers of what Yuri had done, along with a splattering of applause. The other competitors looked stunned.

Viktor didn’t partake in talking, instead watched as a small smile twitched on Yuri’s lips, clearly soaking up the crowd’s amazement. That kid was going places, for sure.

After Yuri’s skate, Viktor could hear Yakov scolding him. _He was an idiot, quads would mess up his body, etcetera, etcetera_. He had told Viktor the same thing when he attempted to do a quad at a young age once. Viktor walked towards the kiss-and-cry and stood above it, still railed in on the rows of seating.

He leaned on the rails, listening as Yakov chewed Yuri’s ear off and watching as Yuri rolled his eyes.

Viktor smiled and slowly clapped, both Yuri and Yakov looking up at him. “Yakov,” Viktor said, tilting his head and dropping his hand. “You should praise him more.”

Yakov looked infuriated. “Don’t butt in,” he warned Viktor. “This is none of your business!”

Viktor ignored him, leaning down to look at Yuri in the eye. “I used to get scolded for that too,” he said to Yuri. “You can win, even without quads. I’d bet money on it. You can win the Junior Worlds Championships.”

Yuri’s eyes flashed and he jumped up. “Okay,” he said determinedly. “If I can win without quad jumps, then choreograph a program just for me!”

Viktor smiled, extending a hand downward. “Sure,” he said and Yuri clasped his hand. “When you win the Junior World Championship, come see me. I’ll give you the best senior debut ever,” he promised. 

The grin Yuri gave in response was worth the extra work.

* * *

“The world’s hottest bachelor,” Viktor read out a magazine title, laughing. “I’m flattered.”

Georgi rolled his eyes. “Don’t pretend that you don’t love the attention,” he said, somewhat bitterly. “You flirt with literally everyone you know.”

“Even girls,” Mila added. “Even though you’re about as straight as Yuri’s posture.”

Yuri looked back at them and glared. He had been fixated on the television where they were showing a figure skating competition. Which one, Viktor couldn’t remember. 

“I’m _joking_ ,” Mila said, draping her arms over Yuri and resting her head on his. “Lighten up, Yura.” 

Yuri rolled his eyes and turned back to the TV. Mila shot a glance back at Viktor. “Honestly,” she said. “I’m pretty sick of people fawning over you. They have no clue how terrible you really are.”

“I’m just drop dead gorgeous,” Viktor said, stretching out across the floor, one hand propped up to watch the TV. “Nothing _I_ can do about it.”

“Yikes,” Georgi commented as one skater fell during a jump. “That didn’t have enough rotations.”

“Who is this?” Viktor asked, tuning into the competition again.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Mila replied, absentmindedly scrolling through her phone. “From, I don’t know, Japan?”

“Huh,” Viktor said, watching the skater. His jumps weren’t the cleanest, but his step sequence was certainly something worth watching. “I think he’s one of my fans. He uses some of my techniques.”

Georgi rolled his eyes. “And what are the odds of that?” 

“There are a million posters of me,” Viktor replied unabashedly. “I think I’ll get one for Yakov’s birthday.”

Katsuki Yuuri finished his skate and Viktor turned back to the magazine, practically preening under the compliments it lathered him with.

“You know,” Viktor said thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll get _two_.”

* * *

Viktor tapped his hands on his seat as he waited for his flight to be called. They were going to Sochi, an approximate five hour flight from Saint Petersburg, which was where the Grand Prix Final was being held.

“You seriously can’t be _nervous_ ,” Mila said to Viktor incredulously from where she was sitting, playing with her hair. “You’ve won both the Grand Prix _and_ the World Championships four times now, you’ve beaten the score for highest free skate and short program, and you’re top of the figure skating world! _I’m_ the one who’s nervous.”

“We can both be nervous,” Viktor pointed out. He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in his seat. “I’m more excited, anyway.” He curled his fingers around the coffee cup, soaking up its warmth. “I’m just worried about breaking my winning streak. I have a record to hold now.” He was twenty-six, almost twenty-seven now as well, and he knew time was ticking down for his figure skating career. 

Yuri didn’t participate in conversation but was bouncing his leg anxiously. Viktor gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile and he returned it somewhat shakily. 

“You’ll do fine,” Mila said to Yuri. “I’ve seen your competition and you’re _way_ above them.”

“I know that,” Yuri said. “It’s _you_ who I’m worried about.”

Mila kicked Yuri and Yuri kicked her back and Yakov sighed and shook his head. Viktor felt bad for him, knowing that no one would want to be stuck on a plane with the three of them. At least Georgi wasn’t here as well.

“Who are you competing with?” Yuri asked Viktor when he and Mila had stopped fighting.

Viktor took a moment to think. “I know Chris will be there for sure,” he said. “There’s also Cao Bin, from China. And Michele Crispino, from Italy I think.”

“His sister’s there too,” Mila added, sitting up. “Sara. We’re friends--we met last year.”

“Your friend, right,” Viktor said.

Mila looked at him. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing,” Viktor replied, catching Yuri’s eye who was smiling as well. Even he knew of Mila’s little crush, even if Mila didn’t know herself.

“There’s also that Canadian guy,” Viktor continued. “I can’t remember his name.”

“JJ,” Yuri said, mouth curling upwards with distaste. “Jean-Jacques Leroy. I _hate_ him.”

“Right,” Viktor said. He still couldn’t quite remember the guy--Yuri hated a lot of people. “Who am I forgetting?”

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Mila supplied. 

Viktor nodded. “And that’s it.” Yuri opened his mouth, probably to ask more questions, but Yakov stood up and beckoned the three to do the same as their gate was called. “I don’t see why you’re all worrying,” he said gruffly, already walking away. “You’re all going to win, anyway.”

His students grinned at each other before grabbing their bags and following Yakov.

“The Sochi Grand Prix,” Viktor said as they walked towards the plane. “I have a good feeling about this.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so so sorry for being so late! all throughout may i was stuck in THE WORST writer's block in the world. Right when I got motivated again, my arms were killing me, and it turns out I've been writing and drawing waaay too much and now have to wear a brace on my arm to help relieve the pain. I shouldn't even be writing right now but i really wanted to get this chapter out. Hopefully i'll write more in july, but for now, im taking things slow. Hope you understand!

The air seemed to crackle with energy during the banquet, the music drumming into his skull and _Stammi vicino_ still looping over and over in his head. 

“There are _way_ too many people here,” Yuri muttered from next to Viktor. He had been glued to his side ever since they entered the room, not in favor of making new friends. 

“That’s what makes it fun,” Viktor said, taking a sip from a fluke of champagne. He held up his glass. “Want a drink?”

Yuri frowned. "I'm underage." 

Viktor shrugged. "So?" 

Yuri shook his head. “No thanks.”

“You should try to socialize, at least,” Viktor chided him. “A figure skater should know good etiquette and social skills as well.” When Yuri said nothing, he sighed and gave up.

“There’s Mila,” he added in an attempt to keep conversation, nodding in the direction of where Mila’s red hair stood out from the crowd. “I haven’t had the chance to talk to her yet.” As he walked towards her, he caught a glimpse of that skater who placed in last—Katsuki Yuuri—being comforted by his coach. Coming in last was never easy, something that happened to Viktor when he was younger, and he hoped Yuuri would cheer up. _And not die of alcohol poisoning_ , he thought, watching as Yuuri grabbed a glass of champagne and downed it.

“Did you see his performance?” Yuri’s voice shook him out of his thoughts.

“No,” Viktor replied. “But I’m assuming it could’ve gone better.”

Yuri shot a glare in Yuuri’s direction. “He ruined all of his jumps. He should probably just retire.”

“Don’t say that,” Viktor said, nudging him. “It was probably just a bad season.”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “You should retire too,” he said. “You’re _ancient_ in the figure skating world.”

Viktor opened his mouth to say something—what, he wasn’t quite sure—but was saved by Mila. “Viktor!” She rushed over to the two of them, grabbing Viktor’s arm. “Congrats on, what your fifth win? You’re making the rest of us look bad!”

“You did well too,” Viktor said to Mila, smiling. It was nice to see a familiar face—as the years went on, more and more of Viktor’s friends retired from skating. Not only that, but the constant feeling to look composed and happy and perfect was quite...exhausting. “A silver medal, right?”

Mila nodded, grinning. “Yuri was fantastic too, though.” She ruffled his hair and he glared at her. “I told you you’d win, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said. “And I told _you_ Sara would still remember you from last year.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” Mila replied, affronted. A second later, her eyes widened, catching sight of a girl behind them. “Oh my god, she’s here, I need to talk to her before she goes all the way back to Italy.” And just like that, she was gone, making her way towards Sara.

“Talk about helpless,” Yuri said.

An arm draped around Viktor and he didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was. “Let me guess,” Viktor said. “You had a stripper pole put in again?”

“You know me so well,” Chris replied, letting go of Viktor and stepping back. “This banquet needs some _fun_.”

“You realize not everyone can poledance, right?” Viktor asked him.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Can _you_?”

Viktor sipped his champagne and chose not to answer and Chris simply laughed.

* * *

Viktor was started to get bored halfway through the banquet. He leaned against the wall and watched as people passed, some offering him smiles and quick waves, some striking up quick conversations with him, some choosing to just gawk at him and leave. 

“I’m surprised,” Yuri said finally, “that you’re not trying to charm your way through this year’s banquet instead of staring at your reflection for an hour.”

“What?” Viktor asked, staring at his reflection in his glass of champagne.

Yuri rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised you’re not talking to more people,” he repeated. “Since you flirt with anything that breathes.”

“I do _not_ ,” Viktor said indignantly. “Besides, I’m not looking for a relationship. I haven’t felt anything...romantic for anyone in a while.” He sighed. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“Enjoying your title of Russia’s hottest bachelor, then?” Yuri replied, tactless as always.

“Honestly,” Viktor said, tipping his head back and draining his glass. “I don’t even care what the media says about me anymore.”

“Some media outlets still think you’re straight,” Yuri told him and Viktor choked on his drink. 

* * *

A few minutes later (how many minutes, Viktor wasn’t quite sure—he had lost track of time), there was the prettiest peal of laughter and Viktor nearly got whiplash from turning around so fast to locate its owner. His eyes fell on Katsuki Yuuri, except instead of looking sad like before, he was grinning and flushed and stumbling drunkenly through the room, a bottle in one hand.

Yuuri turned towards Viktor and locked eyes with him. A smile danced on his lips.

Viktor felt his heart skip a beat and immediately averted his eyes. Yeah, sure, Yuuri was cute, but he wasn’t going to crush on someone else—and definitely not a competitor who lived across the sea in Japan.

Yuuri walked towards him, and, well, a little crush was harmless, wasn’t it? But instead of approaching Viktor, Yuuri stopped at Yuri.

“Dance off,” he said, grinning lopsidedly.

“What?” Yuri looked at him with something akin to disgust. He looked at all people like that.

“Dance off,” Yuuri repeated. “Yuri vs Yuuri.”

Viktor didn’t know what he expected, but he certainly didn’t expect Yuri to narrow his eyes and nod. “You’re on,” he said, crossing his arms, annoyed, but Viktor could’ve sworn he saw a hint of a smile. _This_ was more like a banquet Yuri would enjoy.

And this was how Viktor found himself staring as Yuri and Yuuri had a breakdance competition in the middle of the banquet. The two were talking to each other in Japanese and Russian, neither understanding the other and _wow_ Viktor was growing increasingly more impressed with Katsuki Yuuri, who proved to not only have talent in figure skating. Their dance-off was a strange combination of _whatever_ , with headspins and handstands and anything else that seemed to come to their mind. 

Yuuri was surprisingly good at dancing for someone drunk on sixteen glasses of champagne and Viktor was just _admiring_ his _skill_ as a fellow _competitor_ and definitely not looking at the strip of skin that was revealed when Yuuri danced. Definitely not.

He couldn’t help but smile at them as he dug out his phone. “This,” he said to no one in particular, “is the best banquet I’ve ever attended.”

“Hey!” Yuri yelled at him. “Are you taking _pictures_ , Viktor?”

“Of course not,” Viktor scoffed, taking a picture.

Yuuri was laughing as he stood up and offered Yuri a hand. “I think it’s a tie,” he said. 

Yuri hesitated, before taking his hand and shaking it once before letting go. “A tie,” he agreed.

Yuuri bounced on the balls of his heels, full of uncontained energy. “Who’s next?” he asked, eyes sweeping over the crowd.

Chris stepped forward. “Know how to poledance?” 

Yuuri just grinned.

* * *

“Oh my god,” Viktor whispered, watching Yuuri poledance, eyes raking down his body. “Is this actually happening?”

Yuri was watching Yuuri with less interest. “This is boring,” he commented, scrolling through instagram on his phone.

“Enjoying the view?” Chris nudged Viktor with his arm, a look on his face that was a little too knowing.

“It takes considerable upper-body strength to dance like that,” Viktor replied nonchalantly, not taking his eyes off Yuuri. “ 

Chris thrust his phone towards Viktor. “Take pictures for me, will you? I’m going up to join him.”

Viktor opened the camera on Chris’s phone. “Only if you email me all the pictures later,” he muttered. Then his eyes widened because, wait, now both Chris and Yuuri were poledancing and _wow_ he was really _way_ too gay for this, wasn’t he.

And if Yuuri caught his eye halfway through the dance and honest-to-god _winked_ at him, well, Viktor didn’t blush, despite whatever Mila claimed later.

* * *

Viktor could hardly think straight because Yuuri was _grinding_ him, and it took him a while to realize that the real reason that he couldn’t understand a word of what Yuuri was saying was because he was speaking Japanese.

Then Yuuri’s eyes brightened and he threw his arms around Viktor’s neck. “Be my coach, Viktor!” he said in English, beaming up at Viktor with the brightest smile on his face.

Viktor’s heart tripped ungracefully and fell into his ribs where it stayed there for a while.

“A dance off,” another skater explained to him. “He’s challenging you to dance with him.”

“Well,” Viktor said, unable to stop the smile from forming on his face.“I can’t say no to that, can I?” He offered Yuuri his hand and Yuuri’s eyes lit up as he took it, leading Viktor into the middle of the room.

Viktor couldn’t quite pinpoint what they danced too—it seemed like a mix of everything. He _could_ pinpoint Yuuri’s hand trailing down his arm. His lips quirked up in a smile. The heavy warmth of his gaze. The steady thrum of his heartbeat in his ears. The dance-off gradually became less of a dance-off and more into a dance and it felt like the crowd fell away until it was only them.

 _My free skate is rather fitting now_ , he thought. _Stammi vicino. Stay close to me._

Yuuri caught his eye and grinned and he was helpless to only grin back. 

* * *

Yuuri was laughing at the end of the dance too much to continue, so they made their way over to the back of the room. Viktor’s entire body was aflame, sparks jumping up and down his body. His feet ached from dancing, his face hurt from smiling so much, and he felt lighter than he had in ages.

Yuuri, drunk as he was, stumbled, and leaned on Viktor for support, who reddened, but wrapped his arm around Yuuri anyway.

_You’re beautiful_ , Viktor wanted to say, but instead settled for, “You seem to have beat me in that dance off." He laughed a little. “So be your coach, huh?” He lifted up Yuuri’s chin so they were eye to eye.

Yuuri arched an eyebrow as if to say, _Well?_

“Give me a sign,” Viktor whispered. “You might not even remember any of this, but just one sign and I’ll...I’ll be there.”

"I will," Yuuri promised. "Wait for me." 

And Viktor Nikiforov, who moved at his own pace and never for another, could only nod. 

* * *

The morning after the Grand Prix Final was always the worst. It involved waking up in the morning, tired and hungover and wanting to die. Viktor rolled over, cracking his eyes open to check the time. 8:30. No wonder why he was so tired, seeing as he went to bed around twelve.

Grateful his head didn’t hurt _too_ badly, Viktor reached for his phone and opened it. He was met with photos from last night and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them. He should text Yuuri and ask him if…

Did he get Yuuri’s number?

“Oh my god,” Viktor whispered. “I am the biggest idiot in the world.” He groaned, flopping back down on his bed. Life _sucked_.

Unfortunately, he had no time for moping around (which he was totally going to do when he got home) since he had a plane to catch at ten, which left him about an hour to pack.

And, precisely an hour later, he was downstairs in the hotel lobby, waiting for Yuri and Mila to show up.

“I’ll be just a moment,” Viktor said to Yakov as a thought struck him. “Watch my bags, some of the clothes in there are worth more than your house.”

He approached the front desk. The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly as she recognized him. “Mr. Nikiforov! Can I help you?”

“I was looking for a skater I met at the banquet last night,” Viktor said as charmingly as one could be at nine in the morning. “Katsuki Yuuri? Is he still here? ”

The woman pursed her lips as she checked. “I’m afraid he left a few minutes ago.”

_A few minutes ago. So close_. “That’s too bad,” Viktor said, trying not to sound too regretful. “Thank you for your help.” 

He made his way back to Yakov, who was now joined by Mila and Yuri.

“What was that?” Yakov asked.

Viktor shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Let’s get to the airport. We don’t want to miss our flight.”

* * *

“About your free performance,” Viktor said to Yuri as they followed Yakov, bags in hand, through the airport. “Your step sequence could use more—”

“I won, so who cares?” Yuri said loudly, tipping his head back in frustration. “Quit nagging, Viktor.”

“I’m trying to _help_ ,” Viktor replied in a clipped tone.

“Well, I don’t need your ‘help’,” Yuri snapped back.

“Yuri, you can’t talk that way forever,” Yakov reprimanded him. “And your step sequence could use some work.”

A flash of movement caught Viktor’s eyes and he turned and.

His heart stopped.

Yuuri was staring directly at him and Viktor slipped on a smile, his stomach turning. _Don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up_. “A commemorative photo?” he asked. Yuuri stared blankly at him, so Viktor answered for him. “Sure.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened in shock and he stared at Viktor with disbelief. Viktor’s smile wavered, unsure what he had done wrong. Yuuri’s eyes darkened and his grip on his suitcase tightened and he turned and walked away.

Viktor watched him leave.

He didn’t stop him.

Yuri looked over at Viktor, ignoring Yakov as he continued to yell at him. “Nice going,” he said dryly. “You fucked up.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note now that im rewriting the episodes: 
> 
> they won't be complete rewrites--im not going to copy and paste the script and make it viktor's pov. ill only be rewriting the more important scenes and then add a few of my own.

“I suppose it was dumb to have a crush on a figure skater from Japan,” Viktor said with a little laugh. He fell back on the couch, staring up at his ceiling. “Should I try to contact him? He didn’t exactly look _happy_ when he saw me at the airport. Maybe I should wait for him to come to me?” 

Makkachin flopped down on Viktor’ stomach and blinked up at him like, _you’re a fucking idiot_.

“Well, I know _that_ ,” Viktor scoffed, raking his fingers through the dog’s fur. “You’re no help, anyway.”

He should be down at the skating rink right now, working on his short program and free skate. The World Championships were coming up soon, which meant he shouldbe practicing. He took out his phone and opened instagram. He _really_ should practice.

“Well,” Viktor said. “I suppose looking through instagram would give me some inspiration, huh?” He was in a dead spot, recently. He needed to do something new, to grab the audience’s attention, but, so far, nothing was coming to mind.

Well, he’d deal with all that another time.

Viktor went through Yuuri’s instagram, scrolling through it, eyes glued to the screen. Did he download and save every picture? Yes. Yes he did.

* * *

Viktor was never one for the questions that came after every competition. And now, after winning the World Championships, he braced himself for the worst.

“Hey.” Viktor looked over to see Otabek Altin, the third place winner.

“Yes?” he asked, smiling. Otabek had hardly talked to him (or anyone, for that matter) for the entirety of the competition.

“They spelled your last time as ‘Niliforv’,” Otabek pointed out rather boredly, then turned away.

Viktor grabbed his name tag and flipped it over to see it was indeed _Niliforv_. _I’ll never hear the end of this_.

“Mr. Nikiforov!” Viktor looked up at a reporter. “What are your plans for next season?”

Viktor hesitated. “Well, we all have our secrets,” he said, with a little laugh. “But I promise you, you’re in for another surprise next year.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing next, do you?” Chris muttered from beside him and Viktor kicked him from under the table.

* * *

“You’re not in love,” Mila said to Viktor as she painted Yuri’s nails. Viktor already had his done, the black nail polish bringing back memories of his teenage years. He couldn’t tell if that was a blessing or a curse.

“I am,” Viktor insisted and Georgi and Yuri simultaneously rolled his eyes.

“I know you, Viktor,” Mila replied. “You meet a guy, say you’re in love, then he breaks your heart or you break his.”

“Fair point,” Viktor conceded. “But Yuuri’s _really_ cute.”

“I hope he retires,” Yuri muttered. “There can’t be _two_ Yuri’s.”

“This might come as a shocker,” Mila said, grabbing a blue nail polish bottle. “But sometimes people share the same names and they _don’t_ freak out.”

Yuri scowled at her, but let her continue to paint his names. “Aren’t you dating that hockey player now?”

“Mmhmm. He wants to meet you guys,” Mila added. “But I’m not introducing you to him ‘cause I know you’ll freak him out.”

“Thought you liked Sara,” Georgi commented. “What happened to that!”

“I don’t like Sara!” Mila exclaimed. “I don’t even like _girls_!”

Georgi raised his eyebrows at Viktor, as if to say, _Yeah. Sure._

"And besides," Mila continued. "We're competing again this season."

"You're the top female figure skater in Russia, aren't you?" Viktor said. "You should do fine."

"Oh, I don't know," Mila said with a half shrug. "There are some amazing figure skaters who I'm up against. And Yuri's in the senior division, aren't you?" She looked at Yuri. "You might have some actual competition for once."

Yuri scoffed. "I doubt it."

"You're competing against me," Georgi pointed out. "And Viktor."

Yuri just rolled his eyes and Viktor shook his head slightly. In any case, competing in the senior division would bring Yuri's ego down a notch. 

* * *

“What are you working on?”

Viktor paused his skate, glancing over to where Georgi was standing, arms crossed. “Oh,” he said, letting _Agape_ play out. “I’m torn between which piece I like better: _In Regards to Love: Agape_ or _Eros_.” He sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “I have to choose one for the next figure skating season and none of them feel quite right.”

“What’s their inspiration?” Georgi asked.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Viktor replied. 

“Oh god,” Georgi muttered and Viktor threw him a glare. 

“Like _you’re_ not a hopeless romantic,” he shot back. “The songs don’t fit how I feel. Agape...that’s unconditional, selfless love. I haven’t known Yuuri long enough to feel that at all. Eros is more, ah, _passionate_ love. Which is...closer, I guess? But still not right.” He bit his lip, listening as _Agape_ drew to an end. “The love I feel for Yuuri is more of a…”

“Dumb crush?” Georgi suggested and Viktor rolled his eyes.

“You’re good with this stuff,” he said. “What do you think?” Georgi was the best out of all of Yakov’s skaters in terms of picking out music. He seemed more of an artist that way.

“I’m competing against you this season,” Georgi replied. “Figure this out on your own.” He entered the rink. “I have practice to do.” 

The music switched to _Eros_ and Viktor frowned. His motivation was draining and without a good skate, there was no way to surprise the audience. If there was a way to surprise them anymore, at least. _I’m becoming..._ Viktor shuddered. _Predictable._

He was at the top of the figure skating world and the only direction now was down.

* * *

**Mila:** _oh my god someone posted a youtube video_

**Viktor:** _good for them???_

**Mila:** _its of yuuri im sending a link you have to watch it_

****

His phone pinged again, this time with a link to a video. It was a video of Yuuri. Skating. _His_ piece. It was...beautiful. A near perfect copy. Something about the way Yuuri skated _Stay with Me_ felt more raw, more vulnerable, more heartbreaking…

He wished that he had choreographed this skate for _Yuuri_ instead of himself. And if he became his coach, then his job would be to choreograph skates for Yuuri. His hands tightened on his phone as he rewatched the video.

It was a sign, he was convinced of it. The stars had aligned, fate was in his hands, and all he could think of was Katsuki Yuuri. Which, of course, was why he was booking a flight to Japan right now.

* * *

“Vitya.”

It was snowing out. It seemed to always be snowing. Viktor turned, his hair whipping in the cold wind. 

“Don’t leave.” It sounded like a command more than anything. “Stay here.”

Viktor turned to look at Yakov. “Yakov, you were the best coach I’ve ever had,” he said, walking towards him. “You always will be.”

“If you walk away now, you can never come back,” Yakov warned him.

There was no point in arguing, Viktor thought, as he kissed Yakov’s cheek as a good bye. “ _Dasvidanya_. I’m sorry I can’t do as you say this time.”

He stepped back, and continued to walk towards the airport.

Yakov sighed. “You’re not walking in this weather,” he muttered. “Get in my car, I’ll drive you to the airport.”

Viktor paused. His fingers were numbing in the cold and snow was already soaking into his shoes. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I can’t ruin my shoes, can I?”

“Just get in before I change my mind,” Yakov ordered, slamming the door to his car shut and Viktor grinned.

Yakov’s hands were gripping onto the steering wheel tightly as he glared out at the streets. “You’ll ruin your career with this.”

“I won’t,” Viktor said confidently.

“I hate your thinking,” Yakov grumbled and Viktor suspected this wouldn't be the last time he'd hear that.

* * *

It was snowing in Hasetsu when Viktor arrived--big fluffy flakes that didn't match the newly blossomed trees.

“Strange weather for spring,” he heard a woman comment.

 _Strange weather indeed_ , Viktor thought pushing apart the doors of the train station. If he were a hopeless romantic (which he definitely was), he’d think it a sign. He pulled up a map to Yu-topia on his phone and glanced down at Makkachin. “Ready to go see some hot springs?” Makkachin barked in response and Viktor laughed. He tugged up the hood of his jacket (feeling like Yuri as he did so) to avoid being recognized and began to walk.

The town of Hasetsu was small and pretty. It was right by the seaside and Viktor watched the waves as he walked by the beach. He’d have to find time to walk along the ocean sometime--it had been ages since he’d last been to a beach.

Viktor reached Yu-topia quicker than he had thought, introducing himself to the owner. _Yuuri’s father_ , he thought, somewhat giddily.

“I’m from Russia,” he explained. “I flew in from Japan and took the train here. Can you tell me more about these hot springs?”

Toshiyo beamed. “We’re the last in Hasetsu,” he said proudly. “Been open for generations! Come, take a bath. You must be tired from your flight.”

“I am,” Viktor said, smiling. “Thank you.” He paused. “What about my dog?”

“I can watch over him,” Toshiyo reassured him, bending down to pat Makkachin. “He’ll be safe at the resort.” He smiled. “He looks just like my son’s dog.”

“Your son,” Viktor said.

“Katsuki Yuuri!” Toshiyo said. “He’s a figure skater! You must have heard about him.”

“I have,” Viktor said. “I look up to him quite a bit, in fact.”

“That’s my Yuuri,” Toshiyo replied. “You’ll meet up with him soon.”

“I was already planning on it,” Viktor reassured him. 

The hot springs were like heaven to his sore body but Viktor could hardly relax because all he had to do now was wait for Yuuri. And wait. And wait. And, predictably, five minutes later, there was a clattering sound and the door was flung open to reveal Katsuki Yuuri, his glasses crooked and eyes staring at Viktor in disbelief. 

“Viktor,” he breathed. He looked as though he had seen a ghost. “Why are you here?” 

_He doesn’t know? He asked me to be his coach directly last year_ , Viktor thought. _But, whatever. This is good. He’s here. Now DON’T SCREW UP._

He stood up, flashing a smile that’d make people weak in the knees. “Yuuri.” He extended a hand out towards him. “Starting today, I’m your coach. I’ll make you win the Grand Prix Final,” he said confidently, and then added a wink for good measure.

Viktor had expected many things from Yuuri, played and replayed various scenarios in his head, even, but he did _not_ expect Yuuri to continue to stare at him and then proceed to scream.

Well. It was a work in progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first episode misspelled "nikiforov" as "niliforv" and i accept it as canon instead of a typo.

**Author's Note:**

> I know literally nothing about figure skating and google only tells you so much, so please tell me corrections and suggestions in the comments (my lack of knowledge is probably embarrassing, tbh). I hope you enjoyed this and hit me up at my [tumblr](http://starlitdreamscapes.tumblr.com) for any questions!


End file.
